


Axis Mundi

by notenuffcaffeine



Series: Lost Causes [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Post-Nemeton, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Sentinel Senses, Sentinel/Guide, Sunrise Patriots are Lydia's new BFFs, dead things don't stay dead, jail break, lab rats and science experiments, post-3B, werewolf jail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-01-07 10:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 97,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenuffcaffeine/pseuds/notenuffcaffeine
Summary: “Look! We’re low on options right now. We can either sit here, with no answers, and just watch Stiles and Cloudy get their brains hijacked on the regular, apparently, or we try for answers,” Jim said. Stiles shook his head.“Or we leave-”“That’s great and all, Stiles, but this place is a prison. I’ll be right on board the second you show me how. And half the people here can’t cross a damn line of ash, so who the hell knows what other kinds of traps they’ve got rigged around the place,” Jim argued. “We can’t count on any escapes getting anyone out. And we sure as hell can’t count on any kind of escape plans when you and your mom drop into a walking coma at the drop of a hat.”Stiles crossed his arms and put himself in the tiny corner behind the bunk, facing out at the adults determined to ruin what shred he had left of his sanity. “Fine. Then what are we supposed to do? Huh?”...or...Just because there's never been a successful escape from the Sanctuary before doesn't mean it isn't possible. With a doppelganger running around and Stiles' white-outs getting worse, a jailbreak is the best option. If the pack can pull it off. They'll just have to bargain with a few devils to do it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RonneeM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonneeM/gifts).



> \-------  
> 1) Happy belated birthday to Ronnee! She only asked for this, like, three years ago... 
> 
> 2) This is entirely unbeta'd. But it is 75% finished! =cD
> 
> \-------

Washington wasn't like California. It had actual weather, storms that moved in and moved out, humidity that melted the skin off the bones, or felt like it anyway. It was late spring, so the hill the Hale pack had converted to a den was green on the outside and damp on the inside. The trees were in bloom and mostly green except for the dogwood and the random almond tree that had probably been planted by somebody's pet squirrel. Everything clung to the air, every smell and every taste. But Stiles was getting used to it. All of it, even the sounds, from the birds in the trees over his head to the people elsewhere in the yard and the weird sounds of the building that surrounded it. He was better.

He was still in werewolf jail... But he was better.

The heightened senses thing was both a curse and a blessing in werewolf jail. It was something Stiles used to keep himself safer, a few times he had helped other pack members, and for the most part it paid off. People found it hard to sneak up on him, fewer surprises when he could hear them approach, and what he couldn't catch, he had Derek for. He could tolerate the smell of jail-dank humanoids alright when it kept his head attached to his shoulders a while longer.

Stiles knew more about the jail after a month away from home. He spent his time with the Hale pack, with the people who still knew how to be human. Talia Hale was the alpha there, alive and well and one crafty bitch when she needed to be to protect what was hers. Stiles was hers, because he was Derek's, and as weird as it seemed, that was the only way to put it. The general population of the Sanctuary was a crowd of about a hundred and fifty people and the thing they all understood was territory. Hale pack was about fifteen people strong, they looked out for each other, and more often than not they were the answering force to the bullies in the yard. People stayed away from the hill with the trees in the center of the yard because it was the pack's territory. Stiles liked it there. He felt safe there and he could see trees instead of cement walls. It was as close to home as he could get in a prison.

There was also something pretty damn awesome about making out with the background noise of a breeze through the trees above their heads instead of the harsh, metallic noises of the cell block. He and Derek were both happier outside, as long as it wasn't raining. That had some drawbacks, because they weren't exactly exhibitionists and nobody liked their walk in the trees tarnished by public sex. But there was very little privacy in a prison built to contain werewolves and anybody could walk by their cell, night or not, and it wasn't always at the front of their mind to behave properly in public spaces. Stiles had learned that he could get away with a lot without shedding a single piece of clothing. That was fun. As long as nobody made them walk for a long while afterwards, anyway. They could cuddle it out, sleep it off against Stiles' favorite ancient tree with the huge roots to hide in, and enjoy a nap in the safety of Hale territory.

Other times it was an actual pain and Stiles put real thought into the idea of changing his definitions of private spaces. Werewolves and their super-senses had nothing on his lately and sometimes he didn't want to stop just to keep from offending somebody else's nose. When Derek had both hands under his waistband and kept tugging their bodies closer, and Stiles had finally managed to mark the underside of Derek's chin, stopping the fun to relocate was the last thing either of them wanted.

Stiles grumbled protest when Derek eased back, his way of saying he was too close to the point of no return. He was stronger and fought a whole different set of instincts than Stiles so he didn't mess around with that. They settled down when Derek needed to, which was a complete reversal from only a week earlier. With the sentinel thing working both for and against him, Stiles had zoned out a few times when they first got close, so personal limits were mutually respected. He had worked too hard to be able to handle the sensory overload of just making out. Skin against skin was his new favorite thing but it had actually nearly killed him the first time they tried it.

So with the white flag raised, they pulled back; Derek's hands went to the safer territory of Stiles' sides, Stiles leaned his weight against his forearms on the tree behind Derek and rested his forehead to Derek's.

"Is this, like, tantric? I heard about it but didn't devote much of my internet time to it, and now we don't exactly have the net..." Stiles voice was quiet and rough but it wasn't like Derek had a hard time hearing him. He closed his eyes like he was biting back a laugh and moved his head just slightly in a negative.

"No... It's being careful," he said.

"Yeah, it's annoying," said Stiles. Derek gave a slight nod, foreheads still touching. Stiles almost kissed him but the jerk slid his hand over to pinch his nipple through his shirt and that was just dirty pool. Stiles backed off, hand protectively over his abused sensitive parts and sat on his knees still between Derek's. He could have gotten some epic retaliation but Derek knew it and was expecting it and there was no fun in that.

Then Stiles frowned because he hated his brain sometimes. "If claws and bites can make a werewolf, what kind of STD are we dealing with here? Cuz they don't sell condoms. I asked."

"Oh my god, Stiles..." Derek reeled forward like Stiles really had gone for the low blow and he had to carefully climb out from between the tree roots to safety.

"What? It's a valid question," Stiles replied. He had recovered somewhat quickly after that. "It's not like I really want to go ask your mother. Or mine."

The look Derek leveled at him then said they were both completely out of the danger zone of ripping off each other's clothes in public. Mission status: accidentally accomplished.

"It's a valid question," Derek agreed. "But your timing needs work."

Satisfied, Stiles shrugged it off. "It could have been a lot worse," he pointed out. He was entirely sincere about it and Derek's face crinkled up in another quiet, near silent laugh, like he was afraid of laughing out loud. Stiles wanted to knock him over and get back to the kissing and the touching but that wouldn't solve the whole public-indecency-around-their-mothers problem. Small detail that now he worried about werewolf STDs because his brain was a dirty place that had somehow developed a healthy fear of germs over the years. Prison was the least useful place to worry about safe sex, ever, but there he was, worrying about it.

"Damnit, we just got through the zone outs," Stiles complained, rubbing at his face, frustrated. Derek got carefully to his feet.

"And you brought this on yourself," he replied. He still looked uncomfortable but he stood near Stiles to offer a hand up. "Showers."

That was a brilliant idea and Stiles signed up for it immediately.

 

***

 

The world had changed since she died. It was weird, but colors seemed more vibrant, the smells that hung on the dry summer air somehow more distracting, and every sound had an echo to it, like it was too loud. Some of it her brain just didn't want to process, resulting in headaches that pain killers couldn't touch. Allison Argent spent a lot of time hiding behind dark sunglasses that had nothing to do with any need for a disguise and everything to do with a need for peace and control in her own mind. It was a mild annoyance in the long run, but it was very noticeably new.

Despite the dark glasses on her face at sunset, she recognized the bright red hair of her best friend across the parking lot. Allison broke into a wide smile and then a run. She collided with Lydia Martin in a long missed hug amid a squeal of laughter that hid something more sad. She hung on tight, determined not to be the first to let go.

She wasn't, because a moment later, their hug was wrenched tighter by a third person joining in.

"Scott!" Lydia's complaint was from surprise, and Allison guessed a little pain because Scott had trapped them both in tight. He was all smiles, like she remembered, but when he pulled away there was an anger there that didn't fit.

She didn't find out why it was there until fifteen minutes later, after answering all their questions of where had she been for three months and why hadn't she come back yet and was it safe to be seen so close to Beacon Hills and a dozen other things that seemed suddenly trivial. Their news was so much worse.

"You let your father put Stiles in _prison_?"

Okay, so it wasn't her most coherent moment but Allison was shocked. "Stiles? Your best friend."

"I didn't _let_ him-"

"Allison, come on," interrupted Lydia, rolling her eyes. "His dad's a federal agent very intently focused on all things unnatural in our tiny town. Somehow Stiles was the only _weird_ he could find proof of. Really, that's luck. If you think about it..."

"Not really, as he would have a hard time arresting half the town if he ever found out anything worthwhile, " said Allison.

"Yeah, he would, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't try it," replied Scott. The angry set to his jaw was definitely thanks to his dad. Allison frowned at her friends.

"Dad said it was important but he wouldn't tell me why, or what was up. Please tell me that means you're working on something to fix this," she said.

"Well, I'm not sure that _fix_ is quite the right word," said Lydia. "Have you seen our criminal justice system? It's too huge and too broken-"

"Not what I meant, Lydia..."

"Right. So then we do have something we want to try, and it might work-"

"But it's also more than a little insane and there is absolutely no way it will work," Scott cut in. "Impossibility factor of werewolves times ten."

"Werewolves are real, so it's possible then," said Allison. Scott nodded.

"In theory," he said. "But you didn't know werewolves were real until you met one. Kinda like how we have no way to know if this will work until we do it."

It sounded fair so Allison agreed.

"What are we doing?"

Lydia shifted, checked her nails, her fidget a tell that she wasn't entirely comfortable with the question.

"Theoretically we're conducting a prison break."

For a long moment, all Allison could do was stare. Her headache throbbed behind her temples. It had to be a joke, right? Stiles wasn't present, but it was about him, so maybe Scott was trying to play prankster in his friend’s name.

But then Scott pulled out out a ruled notebook, each page covered in either notes or glued in pictures, and handed it over. He nodded toward it.

"That's our ideas so far," he said. "They just... need work."

"Need work?" echoed Allison. Lydia huffed.

"It's not like they tell you how to do this stuff on Wikipedia, Allison. We're guessing."

Allison stared at the book in her hands, the shock not lessened much. If this was all they had, there was no way any of them were seeing Stiles alive ever again. They didn't just need work, those plans needed a miracle.

 

***

 

After the shower, Stiles was clean and the senses all got a reboot. He had to readjust a little because everything was brighter, louder, smelled stronger after the water rinsed off the grime. Showers were among his favorite things, aside from the absolute lack of privacy and the cold water, which he hated them for, but they gave him a brief reprieve from the constant sensory input. He and Derek headed for the cafeteria for dinner after, and they stood in line with everybody else to get it. It was a regular routine. Their lives had quickly become a pattern. They ate a meal with the Hale pack. They visited with their moms and with Jim, their old roommate who was now so much happier without them in his space, and they went to their cell to sleep. Or occasionally to not-sleep until they passed out.

Tonight was a not-sleep night, their afternoon's fun not quite out of their systems. Derek pinned Stiles to the wall in their small space yet they still both ended up half out of their clothes and barely remembered to bother breathing. There were more important things to be doing, or tasting, or feeling, all at once.

Stiles hadn't zoned in almost two weeks. He was learning how to control it, how to keep away from it. Getting intimate with Derek wasn't a trigger for him anymore. Normally Derek made his senses level out, he wasn't so excitable now that he and Derek had spent an entire month together without killing each other. But something happened that night. He felt the dials slipping and ignored it because he had gotten used to that happening with Derek. But they slipped too far and he had to pull back. Concerned at the shift, Derek let him.

"You okay?" Derek asked. Stiles remembered nodding his head, fighting to turn down the volume. Then there was a loud clatter from somewhere else in the cell block. He zoned so hard he saw white and it came out of nowhere.

 

***

 

The zone outs were weird to see. They were almost frightening in a way, to see someone just freeze up and disconnect from reality. Derek knew what they looked like and had an idea how to handle them, but they still threw him for a loop for a few seconds until he sorted out what was going on. In the dark of their cell it was harder to know for certain by sight alone and he had to listen, heard the way Stiles' heartbeat had sped up to twice the usual. His breathing got spastic, like he sometimes forgot how to breathe altogether and his body would kick out air at the last second.

Instinct was to comfort through touch, but Stiles was overloaded by touch in the first place, with noise added in. Stiles was fine until the noise so Derek was betting the noise sent him over the edge, which meant his sound perception was up too high.

"Stiles? Where'd you go?" Derek kept his voice at a whisper, just enough to be heard but still quiet enough that it would have to be chased down. He ducked to get under the bed, to the backpack with the herbs and spices and godawful smelly shit that could help bring a sentinel's senses back to normal the same way. Stiles didn't so much as twitch in response to Derek's voice. That wasn't usual. The only reason Derek was in the Sanctuary at all was because Stiles responded to his voice over the phone when he was in a zone. That couldn't be a good thing.

When Derek turned around, Stiles was gone. That was disturbing. It was creepy. Stiles was completely disconnected when he was in a zone, there was never anyone home. So who was running the show if he could suddenly take off now? The only bright side was that they were in a prison, so it wasn't like he could get far. Derek followed him out into the hall, backpack over his shoulder. He didn't recall anything like this in Blair Sandburg's "How to train your Sentinel" thesis and he had been through the entire text at least twice in the past month. He wasn't sure how to get through if just talking to him had sent Stiles running away.

The split-level cell block narrowed into a short hallway, formed by the walkway that connected the upper cells to the stairs. The hall and the stairwell both let out onto the cafeteria. It was one of four blocks like that; two on the north side of the cafeteria and two on the south. The blocks went nowhere, they fed into the cafeteria like a central hub, and that was it. There were heavy locked doors on the end of the cell blocks that were guarded by gas chamber anterooms and on the other side of those were guards with an arsenal. There was absolutely nothing to be gained by Stiles' field trip, but he headed blindly south, toward a wing Derek hadn't ventured into yet. It smelled burned and hurt his senses so he wasn't sure how Stiles could handle it.

To his further surprise, Stiles stopped in the hall and pushed open a door. Derek hadn't seen the door because it had no equivalent on the north wing, yet Stiles knew exactly where it was. Derek didn't like it. He was done following the leader and hurried to catch up as Stiles disappeared into the wall. It took Derek a few seconds to adjust from the dimmed lighting of the cafeteria to the near pitch black of the stairwell Stiles had found.

The smell was strongest down here, of fires and dead things, and it churned Derek's stomach. He'd had his fill of fires years ago.

"Stiles!" He didn't lower his voice, let it echo, because he wanted something to get through and fast. Stiles wasn't running anymore but he hadn't stopped moving. This lower cell block was burned out and torn up, no windows because of the low ceiling, and the end of the hall was different than any of the other wings. It ended at a brick wall, not a reinforced door that opened to a gas chamber. Stiles stopped and stared at the wall, blank, zoned. It was dark in this wing, all but black with the only light being the faintest glow from what moonlight made it down the stairwell from the upper floor's windows. Derek could hardly see. He relied on sound more than light and stepped into Stiles' space. A moment later, Stiles' heart rate slowed.

"Are you back?" Derek asked, careful with the volume. He heard Stiles' breathing hitch and then gasp as he came back online. There was coughing and swearing as Stiles startled himself fully out of the zone. Derek set a steadying hand to his shoulder, tried to calm him down. He saw light reflect enough to light up amber eyes and then disappear as Stiles faced him.

"You okay?" Derek asked.

"What the hell-" Stiles cut himself off as he looked around.

"Don't know. I was kind of hoping you could tell me." Derek rubbed at his back, worried by the fear from Stiles' scent.

"I- no clue," said Stiles. He caught at Derek's arm, just as blind as Derek, and stared out at the dark around them. "I was here before. Talia locked me down here when she wanted you to stay away."

"I'd love to know why you're down here now," Derek replied, sincere but nonetheless fighting impatience. "But upstairs would be smarter."

Stiles went still for a moment. Then he caught Derek's hand and started walking back toward the stairs at the other end of the wing. "I want to go to the den. Something's... Weird."

In full, however silent, agreement, Derek just nodded his head in the dark as he followed closer.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

The Sanctuary was a miserable place. Blair Sandburg had been there a month now and explored everywhere. He had been to Ward Six. He had been there at least four times since he had learned they would randomly steal people from general population. He wasn't letting any of the Hale pack suffer in there, and he knew exactly what he would do if he ever saw Jim in that place. It would be ugly, but he would do it. He had worked for two years to track Jim down. He would still be playing games and chasing off after shadows if it weren't for Stiles Stilinski's timely arrival and subsequent chaos and shit-stirring, so he wasn't letting any of them down.

That left him facing the deceptive glass and cement exterior walls of the building every morning on his way inside, checking constantly for some new, tiny crack in the security he walked through that he could maybe somehow fit a few dozen people through. Stiles had planted the idea of a jailbreak weeks ago and Blair had ruled it out as impossible, but he always looked anyway. He knew pushing papers around and playing along as the Sanctuary's newest science-minded anthropologist and translator wouldn't get Jim and the others out either. But the jailbreak idea was suicide and Blair couldn't justify the risk yet. He didn't have enough information. They would just have to run out the clock; no shortcuts.

Rather than go to his office to watch the yard for familiar faces, Blair headed for Ward Six. He wanted to get it over with. Make sure his friends were safe for another day and then get out. The Ward had two checkpoints, unlike access to the general population kept on the lower floor, behind a single gas-chamber like entry. The Ward hid behind a gas-chamber guarded with an armory and men with enough firepower to blow up the entire wing of the building if necessary. Blair had to hand over his ID to two different people and tolerate a retina scan from a computer. Then he had to hold his breath, walk through an unlocked door, and ignore the urge to puke because he hated the Ward.

There was a small reception-like area, the staging area for the nurses. Then started the doors, doors off to the labs, to the surgery room, then the cells. And all around the air buzzed, unnatural and dangerous. The wing was permeated with actual dangerous energy, it showed up on infrared photos that Blair had seen back when the great idea was a jailbreak. Now Blair knew why. It was to make the supernatural prisoners dormant, it suppressed them, neutralized the energy that made them supernatural. It was dangerous to the so-called scientists who worked there, too, so only the cells were kept at the mildly radioactive levels.

Any comic book nerd on the planet could have told them the dangers of radiating anything, let alone something they didn't understand. The scientists at the Sanctuary were aware of the risks and they watched their subjects carefully out of selfish self-preservation if not concern for their fellow human beings. Blair kept expecting to see the Incredible Hulk locked up behind the sealed off rooms but he just saw people. Most of them looked sickly and acted dangerous. One of them looked familiar and Blair didn't check in on him. He didn't want Garret Kincaid to know he was around. The guy had a scary knack for escape and usually when he did, he came back to haunt Blair. For now, he lived in cell three-B and Blair wanted him to stay there.

The nurses' station had a list of names of the prisoners in the ward. Blair didn't fully trust it. Kincaid's name never left the list, as did one prisoner marked simply as T-Bird. The bird was a curious case because he was actually a bird. He was nearly four feet tall and looked like someone had fed steroids to a harpy eagle, but the nurses called him a thunderbird. Though he knew the myths, Blair had never seen a so-called thunderbird until the one that kept the nurses company at their station. The big animal left his perch that day to follow Blair. It was daunting, a big mess of blue and gray and brown feathers following him just at his shoulder. He had the head and sharp eyes of an eagle and T-bird could make sure anyone around him knew they were prey with just a look. The halls were too narrow for the eagle's wings even if he could open them. One wing was badly scorched, some kind of bad burn that destroyed the flight feathers he would have needed to fly anyway. So the bird walked or hopped along behind Blair, well within striking distance. He opened the flesh-ripping beak to shriek a couple of times but no sound came out; probably a silence provided by one of the doctors at the sanctuary. Blair tried to relax and kept to his task.

Like any other hospital, it stayed quiet, aside from bird-talons scratching along the floor. The one-way glass windows showed their sleeping occupants, some recovering from surgeries, others curled up to pounce on the door if it opened, and T-bird just blinked in at them, unruffled. It caused a weird dissonance with the fear and anxiety Blair felt for being there. The bird was fine, what was Blair worried about?

The bird had a beak and claws to defend himself with. Blair had a notepad. That was something to worry about.

T-bird turned out to be useful company, a welcome distraction from the rest of the ward. No bird was as large as T-bird, even the extinct thunderbirds he was a supposed relative of. But if he were an actual thunderbird, he would be in New York or DC or some academic aviary, not in the Sanctuary. Blair suspected the bird was something supernatural, hedged his bets by treating his feathered shadow as a person, capable of communication. He passed through a door and held it open for the bird rather than lock him away along the corridor. The nurses didn't question T-bird's presence, just walked by them with their files.

The last area to be explored was the incubation room and it was exactly as creeptastic as the name on the door implied. Test-tube babies and cloning were frowned upon by the public but the government wouldn't be caught unawares by the changing technologies and sciences when they had private access to mysteries science couldn't explain. Table-top incubators lined one wall, guarding chicken eggs and amphibian eggs and other things Blair didn't want to think about. The back of the room held tanks of various sizes, some the size of basketballs and others big enough that someone could crawl inside and swim around. The room buzzed and hissed and glurped because of those tanks, the machines that supported them easily the noisiest in the building.

It wasn’t Blair’s favorite room and he normally just peeked in the door to assure himself, because he was equal parts paranoid and morbidly curious. This time, though, T-bird took interest in the noise and poked past the slightly open door to investigate the tanks. Blair had no interest whatsoever in exploring that particular corner of hell. He had enough trouble sleeping at night as it was. But the tanks were large. A body could be hidden in them.

Maybe it would be easier on Blair's faith in humanity if he just put the gen pop row in lock-down every morning to check on his friends.

Reluctant and anxious, Blair moved to check the porthole windows in the largest of the tanks. T-bird snapped his beak at the metal latches on the side, made a nuisance of himself in an apparent effort to make the machines quiet. Blair was careful as he waved him off, put himself between the thunderbird and the water tank to get a look inside. What he saw through the small window was impossible and Blair stumbled back.

"Shit. Oh shit." Blair's overactive mind went into hyperdrive. For a long moment he could just stand there, lost in his head as he tried to make sense of what he saw in front of him. Then he realized he was wasting time. With the miracle of technology in his pocket, he could take a picture and it would last longer. After snapping a photo on his cellphone, Blair shooed the bird out of the room with his mind already back in his office, trying to convince himself he was crazy while the homework list of important books to read and translate off the shelves in his office got a little longer. There was no possible way he had seen what his eyes told him. But, as he made his escape from the room, he realized his definition of impossible was a little conservative considering he held the door open to shoo a thunderbird out ahead of him.

 

***

 

A cop in prison expected to fight. It was an unhealthy idea and not one Jim Ellison had ever considered an option for himself. After two years in the weird system that managed the Sanctuary, Jim looked around at bars and solid walls and could at least rest easy knowing that he wasn't in prison. He was a science experiment surrounded by other science experiments. The fights he got in were about food or territory, not because he had once worn a badge. Nobody actually cared about that detail. Jim felt more like he was back in the jungles of Peru than in a prison, fending off wild animals when he had to, even protecting a small tribe lately. Talia Hale ran a pack, not a tribe, but she had a couple of sentinels looking out for the group, whatever they wanted to call it.

If it weren't for the kid she had collected in, Jim would probably still avoid the pack. There were more than a few reasons Jim couldn’t trust the women of the Hale pack and he wished Stiles hadn’t been picked up by them. It wasn't Stilinski's fault he was there, though, and Jim wasn't going to let the kid suffer enhanced super-senses in a place like the Sanctuary without any help. Playing teacher was new to Jim but he tried, and the kid was sharp so he picked up quick. Stiles lucked out, too, with his guide right there to help. Jim was used to the sensory input around him now but he knew the second he hit the city out in the real world, he would zone out and drop like a rock without a guide; his senses had acclimated to his current environment. Stilinski was another story. He could pick up on things that even Jim couldn't, like he was running on over-load, just inches from the edge. He and his buddy Derek both picked up on the basics with just a little coaching. But they were still just a couple of kids with a lot left to learn, and kids made stupid decisions all the time.

The warden wouldn't let Stilinski out of gen pop to work with Blair Sandburg but she would let Blair into it. Blair only checked in on them every other day or so and that was at the boys' request because the lock-downs made all of them unpopular. Jim gave him crap for it but after two years without his friend, it was worth it to him to know where he was, that he was okay. Even when Blair was there, though, Jim had to keep his distance, just to keep Blair safe. He didn’t want to risk losing Blair to the politics at work, to the secrets and lies and games that they were surrounded by in the Sanctuary. It was all mad science and bureaucracy and everyone was damaged by it in that place. It didn't exactly make sense why the Sanctuary hadn't turned on Sandburg yet, but Jim figured the Sanctuary had its own brand of logic. He waited for the trap to spring because there was nothing else to do about it from the inside.

In the meantime, all he could do was greet his guide at the gate every few days and see him safely to the protection of the Hale pack. So he did. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He didn’t like the arrangement, he wanted to keep Blair far away from the Hale pack and the yard. He didn’t want Blair to be there at all. And yet... he took what he could get. Whenever Blair tossed the Bat Signal up in his office window, Jim went back into the cell block to wait.

It was earlier than Blair's usual so Jim almost missed the sign. The other oddity was the color-coding on the emblem. Ordinarily the signal was a desk lamp turned on. In the daylight, it was something only someone with sentinel senses could pick up in the glare of sunlight off the glass window. The one Jim caught this morning was the lamp turned on behind a red paper haphazardly leaned against the lamp. Either Blair was hoping to start a fire or there was a problem. The timing of problems on Blair's side of the guards was suspicious because of the problems on Jim's side, so he actually dragged Talia and Victoria to meet Blair. Something was up.

They made it to the cell block just before the lights flashed for the lock-down. Jim braced himself for the noise as the cell doors clanged and rolled and clattered to their places. He knowingly locked himself in a long, narrow, two-story hallway with werewolves; his life had certainly taken turns he never expected.

"I don't see how this is helpful to anyone," said Victoria Argent. She was talking to Talia, because she and Jim tended to argue too much. "The lockdowns, the visits. What's an anthropologist supposed to do to help?"

"We don't know yet," replied Talia. And that was why they played lab-rat and why the anthropologist wandered freely into a dangerous prison yard with no one hassling him. The Sanctuary thought the guy was doing whatever they hire anthropologists to do and everyone on the yard was still trying to figure out how to use the idiot visitor to their advantage so thus far he was safe.

He was still an idiot.

The big, reinforced door opened up to let Blair out of the gas room that guarded the cell block. It wasn’t like Jim had seen Blair happy in a couple years, but he knew well enough when his friend was upset. His expression showed concern and his movements were quick and triggery.

“What’s going on, Chief?” Jim asked. Blair took stock of him and the two women with him and it didn’t seem to set him at ease, even if he was normally fine with the idea of werewolves and hybrid-humans. He stopped in front of them, looked between Jim and Talia, all business and strange calm.

“Where’s Derek? I walked into some strange stuff this morning. And considering where we are, that should tell you something,” said Blair. Jim frowned and looked to Talia. He didn’t say anything though, just set his jaw, waited grimly with Blair for the official answer from the pack alpha.

“Is it the kind of strange stuff that means they won’t let you walk back out of here the way you came in?” asked Victoria.

“You know, I have no actual idea anymore. Reality is getting... a little fuzzy lately,” Blair replied. Talia studied him, expression thoughtful, and Jim knew she was reading him the same way Jim could. Super-senses picking up all the little things, like the quick heartbeat and the anxious scent.

“Stiles went on a walk today,” she told him. “Into a burned out cell block.”

“He’s been in there before.” Blair shrugged, not seeing the connection to the weird that Talia was.

“He was zoned when he went walkabout, Chief,” said Jim. “Derek said he froze up and then just... left.”

“So you have Derek here, right?” Blair asked. The surprise registered then. The sharp mind almost visibly jumped tracks. “Wait. That’s what he was doing before. That’s what got him sent here,” said Blair. Talia nodded.

“So are the two walks related?” she asked. Blair shook his head.

“God I hope not. Let’s just go with a big firm no on that,” he said. He set a hand to his pocket like he was going to get something to show them but then he stopped, cast a look toward the end of the hall. There were cameras everywhere and Blair knew about them as well as the rest of them did. Then the jail cells around them slid open again, the blue lights stopped flashing their silent alarms, and the lockdown was lifted. Blair instead held an empty hand out toward the now-open escape route out to the yard. “We’ll talk about it later. Outside is good. Somebody tell me what’s going on with Stiles.”

And that was Blair’s attempt at covering for something dangerous that made him nervous. He was a really lousy undercover cop. Jim didn’t call him on it though, just helped him steer the two women out. “I think you should just talk to the kid about it. You’re the expert here. Earn your credentials, Sandburg.”

“You’re the expert, I’m the guide. Why weren’t you helping him?” Blair didn’t seem very amused. Neither was Jim at the renewed insistence that he was letting a kid sink or swim in a prison.

“I _was_ helping him, I _do_ , but I’m not going to follow those two rabbits into-”

“For the love of god, when did _you two_ get married?” cut in Victoria, her usual state of surly. Talia let out a quiet laugh.

“They’ve been married as long as I’ve known them,” she informed her second. Jim glared at her while Blair just rolled his eyes. Out of protest to the women and their attitude, Jim decided not to talk to Blair again. It was easier than picking a fight with a werewolf.

 

***

 

“So you’re overloaded again.”

The conclusion wasn't a welcome one. Stiles stared at Blair and waited for some further genius explanation. Stating the obvious wasn't exactly helpful.

“Yes? I guess? Except look where I ended up.” Stiles dug through the folder of papers Blair had amassed on the Sanctuary compound. Sandburg had made him give back the iPad but he had let him keep everything else. Strangely, the detailed schematics of the building and various other assorted information relevant to an escape plot was safer with Stiles than it would be with their man on the outside. Stiles had occupied much of the last few weeks memorizing everything.

With the papers spread out on the makeshift table in the pack den’s common area, he pointed automatically to the wing where Derek and found him. The rest of the pack had gone to breakfast, but with Blair there, Stiles, Derek and Jim were skipping a meal in order to get answers.

“I was here. I followed the sounds _here_ ,” said Stiles.

“What sounds?” asked Blair. Jim Ellison waved him off.

“Don't ask,” he said. It wasn't a suggestion, it was an order. One Stiles would probably be ignoring anyway so he pretended it hadn't happened.

“This right here-” he pointed to another section of that wing, higher up by at least two floors. “Is Ward Six. Whatever was messing with me, whatever caused the zone, it came from Ward Six.”

“You _caused_ the zone,” said Jim. “We've been over this-”

“Fine, I caused it, but something in Ward Six _hijacked_ it. That’s my point here. That's what isn't cool,” returned Stiles.

“Okay. Step back a minute,” said Blair, playing peacekeeper as much as he was churning the information over in academic-mode. “Go back to when you were at home. When you first started to overload. Where did you go?”

“The canyon,” offered up Derek. Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, when it finally got really bad. At first it was just... I would zone out and stay where I was. Then everything went white and it got a little like sleepwalking or something and I ended up in the kitchen and the backyard. The time I was gone longest, it was like nine hours before Derek tracked me down at the ravine.”

“Derek tracked you... were you looking for him?” asked Jim. Stiles shook his head.

“No way. That was before the... uh... before,” he said. Derek rolled his eyes but didn't give him any crap.

“This time he ran away from where I was, so I didn't have anything to do with it,” he offered up.

“But it still worked to bring him back, right?” Blair asked, pointing between Stiles and Derek. “You heard Derek when you were in white out and followed him back.”

“Maybe? I think?”

“I talked to him a few times while he was on the move. He didn't hear me. It was more of a... spatial awareness thing because he seemed to max out on sound,” said Derek. “He seemed to snap out of this one on his own.”

“I just remember he was there,” said Stiles. He pointed to the Ward again. “And I remember this.”

Blair shook his head and started shuffling the papers back over the map that had Stiles agitated. “You haven't been there, so you can't remember Ward Six. We need to keep you out of Ward Six.”

“Which is kind of my point here,” said Stiles. “Something in Ward Six is hijacking my brain and I am not okay with it. Okay? I need somebody to listen to me on this.”

“I’m listening! I promise,” Blair cut in, quick to either reassure or defend Stiles couldn't tell which. He waved at Derek and Jim. “ _We_ are listening. But with what I know of that place, I don't know what...”

Blair stopped suddenly, some kind of harsh realization stabbing pushpins into whatever passed for the chaotic idea cork-board in his mind. Stiles could practically see the ball of yarn mess unraveling on his face but Sandburg wasn't sharing. “ _What_ what?”

Blair stared at him. He looked at Derek like he had seen a ghost or something. The wheels were obviously turning in his head and still, somehow, to Jim Ellison’s obvious concern, Blair Sandburg was _speechless_.

“Chief...” Jim stepped around the table like he expected to have to catch his friend. Stiles could hear Blair’s heart rate easily enough and it seemed a valid concern. Blair managed to get coherent enough to pull a cellphone from his pocket. He showed something on the screen to Jim.

“I found that in the Ward this morning. Maybe the walks were related after all?” he asked. It wasn't like he was trying to whisper around werewolves and sentinels but there was no volume to Blair’s voice.

“What the hell does that mean?” Derek wanted to know.

“What did you find?” Stiles asked at the same time.

“I, uh... I don’t have the first freakin’ clue, man,” was the best answer Blair could come up with. He handed the cell phone over so they could see it. At first, Stiles saw just a glass and metal box, something out of a sci-fi movie science lab. Then the contents of the box came to his attention.

“What the hell!” He looked to Blair and then the phone and then Derek and back again. “Is this for real?”

“I just took it this morning. Like, an hour ago,” said Blair, shaking his head. “It's really there.”

Stiles had to stop looking at the picture. “How?”

“It's from when they had me up there. They figured out how to separate the wolf,” said Derek. He still stared at the photo on the phone. Stiles shook his head and reached out to make Blair take the phone back.

“Nope. Whatever that thing is, it's not from you.” But even as he said it, Stiles had a hard time believing it. The photo had very clearly shown Derek’s face on the body in the hibernation box. He didn't know how or why, but they somehow had Derek in a box in Ward Six, even as he stood there three inches away from Stiles. He lightly shoved at Derek, more to reassure himself that he wasn't seeing things, that Derek really was with him. “They didn't take your wolf. You can full-on shift into a wolf now. Like your mom can. They didn't take anything except your face, apparently.”

“Then what else is in Ward Six that you would be looking for?” asked Derek. “What was in the canyon? Because I’m only seeing one common denominator here.”

“Whatever that is, it isn't you,” said Stiles. He caught the back of Derek’s shirt though, just to be sure he had the right Derek from then on, not an imposter. Which was more disturbing the more he thought about it, so he let go of Derek long enough to hunt a Sharpie out of the bag. He then started drawing a triskele on Derek’s hand. It wasn't like the man’s tattoo but it was something that an imposter with Derek’s face wouldn't know about to have on their bodies. Derek tolerated it, but he seemed to expect the tolerance was some kind of trade off for Stiles’ acceptance of what he was saying.

“They nearly killed me when I was in there. They took _something_. The only reason I'm still here is that you gave it back,” he said. He waved vaguely toward Blair’s phone. “Maybe that's just my face on a dummy or something. But something in that section caused damage, and it wasn't the knives and scalpels. Maybe they figured out how to steal the spark. Maybe that whatever it is... maybe that's what they did with it.”

“I don't know who to talk to about these projects, man. I don't even know where to start-” Blair was obviously stunned and trying to talk himself through it. “I mean, this is... some metaphysical crazy cloning bullshit. None of the compounds I've visited played with anything like this.”

“It's like the nogitsune,” Stiles realized. “They made a copy.”

“What's a nogitsune?” asked Jim.

“Fox demon,” replied Stiles with Blair as an echo.

“Technically, the one Stiles refers to-”

Jim interrupted Blair’s expanded definition offerings. “How do we kill it?”

“Generally it kills us,” muttered Stiles.

“There’s no guarantee that's what this is,” said Derek.

“Dude, science doesn't work like in the movies, man,” said Blair. “You can't just take someone's DNA and then a week later have a whole human-”

“ _My_ question remains,” said Jim.

“We can't kill what we don't understand,” replied Derek. “Not without knowing even what it is. If we try, we could just be feeding it-”

Blair started nodding, his hand waving in a loop as his mouth tried to keep up with his brain. “Like the hydra. Don't chop off a head or you just end up with a great big bloody mess and a couple new heads.”

Derek nodded. “Exactly.”

“I don't know, man. I gotta get back up there. Hit the books. Make some new friends or something-”

“Or you could go home,” suggested Jim. It was less suggestion and more of a command. “Get on the next plane to Africa or Peru and get the university to fund some big project on the linguistic cultivations of prairie dogs for the Ag department so you get the _hell_ away from _demons_ and cloning shit.”

“I’d be dead by the end of the day,” replied Blair. He collected his things and started backing toward the entrance of the den. “I’m in this. We figure it out. You guys get with the women. We need more brains on this. More lore. If you get anything, hit my window with a spitwad or something. Otherwise I’ll be back in two days.”

“Goddamnit Sandburg-”

“You know, Ellison, maybe you need to not piss off any deities right now, huh? Less with the damning, more with the making-nice. Build an altar or something-”

“You can't get to the doors without an escort,” Stiles pointed out. He waved a hand to indicate the general area of the yard above their heads. “Werewolves and shit...”

Blair stopped at the reminder, checked his wrist for the watch he wasn't wearing. “Right. Can someone get me out of here please? We got shit to do...”

Stiles and Derek looked to the slowly simmering Jim. It wasn't that they didn't agree with Blair. It was more that they didn't want to set the sentinel off on a rampage in defense of his guide; the man got particular about pretty few things in the Sanctuary but Blair was a big trigger for the former military man.

“If he missed the window, he's in here for a few hours,” Derek pointed out. “Then it's not just a visit and he has to answer to the warden what’s going on.”

The stand-off held for another few seconds before Jim relented. But the big man wasn't happy about it. He stalked toward the front door and didn't bother to check if Blair was with him. Blair rolled his eyes and had to hurry to catch up. Stiles looked to Derek.

“In related news... I am _not_ telling Victoria there’s two of you.”

 

****


	3. Chapter 3

Beacon Hills hadn't changed much since Allison had been gone. It felt the same, driving around with Lydia, her face hidden behind sunglasses. It was still cool so she buried herself in a jacket and scarf. Lydia and Scott had to finish the week at school, then it was time off for the early spring break. And in the meantime, Allison made plans for the road trip that would lead to a jailbreak. Allison figured they were being a little hopeful that they could orchestrate a prison break in a week, but she didn't have a lot of other things demanding of her time just then. Her dreams of a college education faded behind a reality of dodging hunters.

Lydia had it all planned out, though. They just needed Allison’s dad’s connections. There was a lot that could wrong with their plan. That was kind of inherent in trying to plan a prison break on a high school education, so it didn't bother Allison too much. From what she understood of it, there wouldn't be a lot for them to do until Stiles and Derek were outside the prison walls. That's where Allison would help them disappear. On paper, the road trip would be the hardest part.

It was a ten hour drive to Washington from Beacon Hills. Thankfully she wouldn't be stuck in the car with Scott McCall. It wasn't a great help that they were both seeing their own “other people” really; Allison left because she “died”, but she didn't know how much that had really changed how she felt. She was there because she still loved her friends and her friends asked for her help; in her own way, she still loved Scott, too.

She just had to remind herself to say good bye, that Beacon Hills wasn't really her home. It never had been. Her family had always moved around too much, and Beacon Hills was just one of those stopping places.

Except for one place. The cemetery. Lydia drove by it and Allison asked her to stop for a few minutes.

“What? Why?” Lydia asked. It wasn't her favorite place. “Are you sure?”

“I want to visit my mom,” said Allison. “Since I'm here. It's been a year...”

Lydia opened her mouth, intent to say something, and then stopped without sound. She nodded and flicked on the blinker. They caught the entrance to the old hallowed ground and crept along to the back. Lydia remembered where the Argent family plot was without being told.

“I haven't been out here very much,” she said, almost apologizing. “There's parts that seem empty. But there's other parts that... well, I saw Mary Brown’s mother out here a week before Mary died in that car accident off Beckham Road. I don't appreciate the warnings.”

“Understandable,” said Allison. She flashed her friend a smile. “Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you didn't visit my grave after the funeral.”

“There's no one to talk to there, so why would I?” said Lydia as they climbed out of the car. “Even your aunt’s coffin is empty now.”

“What?” Allison startled at the news. Lydia nodded.

“One of the reasons I don't like the cemetery,” she said, her nose scrunched up. “I know where there are bodies to respect and where there aren't. I noticed your aunt's was empty when I was out here for yours.”

Allison frowned as they walked the broken path toward the headstones. “I don't understand that.”

Lydia shrugged. “Like I said, I don't like the cemetery now.”

Her friend lead the way to Allison’s headstone, right beside the one for Allison’s mom. It was odd to see her own name on the headstone. Allison crouched beside it, traced the letters with her fingers. _Beloved daughter._

She didn't dwell there long; it was just an expensive rock. Allison swept leaves away from her mother's headstone, brushed off the dust it had accumulated.

“Why didn't your dad bury her ashes?” Lydia asked behind her. “Did you guys spread them somewhere else?”

It was a curious question, meant to be harmless from her tone. But it surprised Allison. She looked over her shoulder at Lydia.

“What do you mean? We buried Mom. She wasn't cremated.”

Lydia froze up, suddenly stiff and pale, her eyes wide. “Uhm...”

Allison dusted her hands and stepped away from the headstone.

“She's not here?” she asked. Lydia looked up at her, apologetic but sincere. She bit her lip and shook her head. Allison set her hands to her hips as she considered the new puzzle, backed up to stand beside her friend. The only two people she knew to have died and been buried in that family plot weren't actually there. She looked over the names she didn't know. There were no flowers or remembrances anywhere.

“Sometimes I worry my family won't die,” Allison said, frowning.

“If it were anyone else’s family, that wouldn't make sense,” Lydia replied. She still looked quite unsettled. Allison caught her arm looped in hers and turned them away to walk back to the car.

“Let's go. We still need to stop at the Sports Warehouse,” Allison said. Lydia frowned.

“Are you going to ask your dad?” She pointed vaguely back to the empty grave sites over their shoulders. “About your mom?”

“Nope,” Allison decided. “If he wanted me to know, he would have told me by now.”

The logic confused Lydia if the expression on her face was any indication. But Allison didn't clarify. Maybe Lydia was a banshee with a weird new life, but Allison’s life hadn't changed much in death; her family secrets could strangle every one of them without too much help, and Allison knew she had to pick her battles.

 

****

 

Derek didn’t quite know what to do about a clone of himself wandering around in another ward. Everyone could say what they wanted, he was certain whatever it was that had his face was alive at all because of the week he had spent in that lab. It was a terrible place. He remembered pain and he remembered the brain fog that came from being drugged, too much, too often, and too inconsistently. Sometimes he had been awake when they poked and prodded and watched him heal. They knew he would heal, they timed it, they tried to make him heal faster, just like they sometimes tried to make him heal more slowly. After that week, Derek was amazed to be alive. He had been harvested like a lab rat growing spare parts.

And he didn’t know how to tell anyone that and make it make sense. He could barely deal with it himself. His mother, he knew, would rage. As hard as she had been on Stiles and Jim about just letting Derek know she was alive, if she found out what the so-called scientists had done while Derek was gone, there would be no stopping her. The men and women in the lab coats of Ward Six had stopped just short of taking off limbs, so it made sense to Derek that they used the parts for something. A clone wasn’t that far fetched. But he didn’t know how the thing had his face. He didn’t have all the answers to argue his case.

What he knew for certain was that the thing was an actual monster, something from a dozen modern-day Frankenstein brains with no moral spirit. They had spent a week killing him. If it weren’t for Stiles, they would have succeeded. And Derek had never been so certain in his life that those people needed to die, their research along with them. He didn’t know how, though. Which brought him around to a temporary patch job to settle his mind about it.

“Did you save those notes you made on how to get out of here?” he asked Stiles that night. “Or just the printed pages Sandburg gave you?”

“I don’t throw anything away ever, are you kidding,” replied Stiles. He didn’t move to chase the papers down though. They sat at the base of a tree just to be outside. It was weird for Stiles, going from growing up surrounded by computers and video games and stereos to the absolute silence of the yard and their small piece of nature there. He got bored too easily. But he had settled down about it in the month they had been there. Outside he counted leaves and watched stars and chased bugs around to figure out where they went. He had chased a beetle one day and decided the best way out of the Sanctuary was to tunnel under it. That hadn’t gone over well with either of their moms.

“I think maybe we should get back to figuring out how to leave,” said Derek. It caught Stiles’ attention away from the sun’s slow disappearance across the cloudy sky.

“Wait. You mean that?” he asked. “Like, you really want to start work on it again?”

“I still don’t _want_ to, but I think we need to,” said Derek. He waved toward the shadow of the building they were stuck in. “We can’t stay.”

“Okay... so... does this mean you’re ready to tell your mom about the reasons we can’t stay?” Stiles asked. It was a leading question, completely unfair, and Derek withdrew automatically. He set his jaw and looked away.

“Nope.”

“She’s gonna kill me for not telling her, you realize this, right?”

“She won’t kill you.”

“Okay, but I know you know there’s a lot of room between the walking dead and actually murdered and you know she is fully capable of walking that line. I am small and squishy. Your side of the family has teeth. Big ones.” Stiles held up a hand, finger and thumb held about two inches apart for illustration. “Like, this big.”

“Then you’ll only be _that much_ dead,” said Derek. “I can live with that.”

Stiles grunted and gave up on the already old argument. They hadn’t told their moms all day, and upon discussing it with Jim, they realized he was in no hurry to go spreading the horror story around anywhere either. He had been in Ward Six, he knew what it was like. Jim didn’t want to invite the demons of that place back into his life by talking about it. He refused to talk about it, he only reluctantly acknowledged its existence at all, so Jim would not be the one to tell them. They were safe. For at least two days, if Sandburg kept to the promised schedule. Maybe then they would have more solid information for Talia and Claudia when they did have to tell them what was going on.

“I’m just saying, for now, you and me can go back to figuring out a way past the gates, that’s all,” Derek said. Stiles shrugged and nodded acknowledgement of the change. Derek leaned over enough to lean on the tree root that separated them, then kissed Stiles’ cheek as a simple thanks for playing along. It got him grunted at again.

“I’m gonna be dead soon, you better get those in while you can.”

 

****


	4. Chapter 4

The doppelgänger in Ward Six occupied Blair’s brain for the rest of the day. He tried going back to his office, tried to hit the books and research, tried to write down a few notes on Stiles’ report of the white out, stayed busy jumping from project to project in an effort to focus. Blair didn't have ADHD or anything, his brain just went fast, like the rest of him, and his brain was going fast on the supernatural.

The spastic focus wasn't a guide trait, because Derek Hale was quiet and measured, stoic and grumpy by comparison. Hale had seen things, grown up hard, like Jim had. Which all left Blair with new numbers to crunch on what made sentinels and guides tick because his original hypothesis was out. Surly, grumpy, bitchy bad attitudes were simply not inherent in sentinel. Maybe it wasn't an evolutionary case of self-preservation. Maybe Jim and Derek were both just cranky guys who pulled in hyper best friends. It wasn't exactly science.

And Stiles had a lot going on, man; Blair didn't even know where to start. Stiles by himself skewed a very small statistic pool all to hell. But then, the Sanctuary did that all on its own, so Blair gave up then on trying to draw valid sentinel research from the mess. It was a distraction at best... from things he very desperately wanted distraction from, but it was still a distraction nonetheless. He couldn’t actually afford the distraction, either, they were running out of time to get the Sanctuary’s secrets out in the open. The problems were hitting Derek and they had no way of knowing just how hard the impact would knock the rest of the Hales’ pack and Jim.

Somehow Blair was supposed to figure out the answers to it in Ward Six. The place was creepy and Blair hated it on principle, as a human and a scientist. It figured that the only way he could learn anything about Ward Six was to use his clearance and actually spend time there. Ward Six had its own computer network, all of their research was locked up behind firewalls like it didn’t exist, unless accessed from inside the Ward. It took Blair all day to sort that mystery out, and he had tried every backdoor he could think of to get away from it. It was unavoidable.

That was how Blair found himself at a computer station, back in the ward, at the worst possible time of day, without even realizing his research could put him at risk.

The Ward looked just like a hospital ward, with the long corridors and the antiseptic smells that got trapped in them. The glass boxes that served for patient rooms were really cages, though, and every inch was monitored by cameras and sound. Outside the rooms were locked cupboards for supplies, counter tops to write notes from while safely on the other side of triple thick safety glass that could withstand explosions. A thunderbird wandered around freely, damaged and deemed harmless by some idiot up the chain, but they didn't trust he wouldn't fly away out in the yard. For the sake of all that was any kind of holy, that wasn’t any kind of normal for a ‘hospital’ at all.

There were also wheeled carts with computers set up on them to provide mobile access to files too large to be accessed on a tablet. And from what Blair could tell as he poked around in the Ward Six files, every file was too large for tablet access. Every file had video feeds and sounds and images, as well as the doctor's notes and observations. Every report that had been compiled from the lab experiments was labeled under strange alpha-numeric code and filed away, like they could pretend it wasn't proof of torture, like it held some clinical value.

It seemed too easy. Blair had avoided digging through the Ward files after he discovered they could only be accessed from within the Ward. He knew it all had to be monitored. He knew it was going to raise all kinds of red flags with Miranda and the darling warden would revoke his clearance. But the stakes were up, the risk was too... creepy. So Blair stood at one of the carts, out of the way, and read through files. The nurse knew he was there, paid no attention to him at all. His badge was enough to unlock the doors, it had the clearance to log him in on the Ward’s private server. No armed guards showed up to drag Blair away, Miranda didn't march in on her pointy stilettos to kick him in the ass and make him leave.

He had full access to Derek’s file, but there was no obvious connection to any other patient. Blair tried to read just the doctors’ notes because the detail of what had gone on while Derek was in the ward... it wasn't human. It was butchery and the work of barbarian monkeys, protected behind a frightening bureaucracy pretending to be science. Derek had, according to the notes, died twice while in the ward. Never brain dead, just clinically dead and revivable. The second time it happened, the doctor managing the experiments - somebody named Falwell- decided to back off. Not out of concern for the prisoner or any moral or ethical responsibility, but rather because he was concerned about Derek’s mother causing a riot if he wasn't returned alive. That was why Derek was just barely alive when Stiles got to him: he had been dead, drugged back to life enough to make him walk, and the fear and adrenaline got him the rest of the way. It wasn't a good place. And it was a shitty file to be interrupted while reading.

“It _was_ you after all, Nature Boy.”

The surprise from being spoken to was nothing compared to the chill of memories dragged up by the voice. Blair had dealt with a few too many crazies in his life since meeting Jim, had to work through a few traumas of his own, and some of them were because of that voice. Blair turned around slowly to see Garrett Kincaid leaned against the door of a nearby room. On the outside of it. Where he very much did not belong.

Somehow managing not to jump out of his skin, Blair took some calming breaths as he exited programs and logged off the computer. He had apparently distressed T-bird, because his feathered friend showed up at his shoulder - he stood nearly four feet tall - and started gnawing a button off Blair’s jacket sleeve. The bird was a welcome distraction. He stalled on looking up at Kincaid again, like maybe the genie could be shoved back in the bottle if he didn't look at it.

“Kincaid. What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Serving time to my country,” said Kincaid, all dry sarcasm. “But you’d know that. You and Ellison put me here.”

“Uh, minor point of fact, but no. _We_ didn't,” Blair replied. He tried to remove his sleeve from T-bird’s beak. “ _You_ breaking out of prison one too many times, uh, would be the, uh... the reason you’re serving time. I don't understand why you’re _here_.”

The upward pull of his lips indicated that Kincaid smiled at that, but the tight lines around his eyes told a far different story. He was not entertained by T-bird’s antics, or Blair’s pulled attention. He didn't move away from his open cell door, however. There was an eight-foot distance between them that Blair intended to maintain.

“Information’s a commodity. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine, Nature boy,” said Kincaid. He pointed to the cell across from his door, one all lit up on the inside, with someone on a gurney in the center of the room staring dumbly at the light like they were in pain. “Your cop friend lived in there for awhile. And here you are, walking around with a shiny badge. There must be something going on.”

“Yeah, its called I work for them and they own my research,” said Blair. He shrugged it off. Then he started logging back into the computer. If Jim had been in Ward Six, his files would be there, too. He glanced up at Kincaid. “Shouldn't you be getting back to your room?”

“Half an hour free time, twice a day,” came the belligerent reply. Blair harrumphed and tried to ignore him. Kincaid edged a little further from his doorway and Blair had to rethink his curiosity. Digging into Jim’s file would only make him angry, and it left him in Kincaid’s immediate sight that much longer. But he could get to Jim’s file...

Suddenly T-bird let out a throaty hiss, something Blair hadn't even known the bird could do, and flapped a wing. Blair looked up to see Kincaid now stood behind the computer cart. He set his chin on the flat screen monitor’s top edge and stared over at Blair. Way too close. Blair looked up at him, eyes narrowed, then over at the nurse at the station and the two orderlies-slash-guards that babysat Kincaid from around the hall. They were aware of their patient and monitoring him so Blair tried not to give the man the satisfaction of a reaction.

“That computer won't give you any clues, Sandburg. You've been blind too long, working for the government that put away a cop for being a freak. That's your fault, too, isn't it? Playing lab-coat, throwing the rat under the bus... your favorite rat, even. Guard dog on a leash. It was just another experiment to you, huh? Power grab on the hard working Americans who kept you employed.”

The slowly maddening accusations were spoken calmly, sincere attempts at making Blair rehash something he had spent the better part of fifteen years trying to move past. Blair kept his attention on the screen, only glanced up to be sure Kincaid stayed back.

“So are you going to tell me why you’re here or do I look it up for myself?” Blair announced, trying to derail Kincaid. It didn't exactly work.

“I don't die,” the man said. Point blank, no fanfare, just blunt reporting of fact. “And oh how many times they have tried. So many ways. Always because they wanted an answer to something they pretended was for science.”

“It wasn't a government conspiracy so I don't know what it could be other than science,” Blair replied. It was cold. He didn't care. He even tried to sound bored. T-bird click-clacked in an ever widening circle behind Blair, still hanging around but backing off from the bad energy Blair was emitting by the truckloads just then. Back on his quest for Jim’s information, Blair managed to find a file that looked hopeful and clicked it open. “This is a blacklist site, Kincaid. This isn't the G-men. This is above them.”

“Which means it _is_ the government. Just not Uncle Sam. And you, Nature Boy, are just another fly in their web,” said Kincaid. The man was older than Blair by maybe ten years, but he was strong and wiry; the Sanctuary kept their Ward projects healthy, not frail and dying. So when he shoved at the cart, the heavy base and the brake wheels weren't enough to stop it from smacking into Blair. The monitor was anchored and the entire cart was fine. Caught lurking and surprised, T-bird flapped his wings and skittered into the wall. Blair was surprised but he was angry, too. He shoved back at the cart, met Kincaid’s angry glare over the monitor with one of his own.

“No, it makes me another spider. I’m not _in_ the web, I’m _building_ it,” he snapped back. “I put _Jim_ in this place, right? So what do you think I can do to you, huh, old man?”

The harsh words and the look on his face must have sold it, because Kincaid backed off. He stared at Blair with some of the belligerence gone. Reassessing. For all the Patriots had it out for Blair, for all their stalking and threatening him over the years, he and Kincaid hadn't spent much time together. They had the names of his friends and family, they knew where he lived, the car he drove, probably even Blair’s resume. And there was nothing in Kincaid’s playbook that would allow for being wrong about Blair Sandburg. The actual threat was enough to make the creepy man back off.

“You’re playing games with a machine you don't understand, Sandburg. They’re gonna put you in a box until you disappear, too. Just watch.” It was said just to make his pride feel better probably and Blair managed to ignore it. He ignored Kincaid as best as he could and scowled at the computer screen instead. He had Jim’s file in front of him, he just had to center himself and calm down enough to read it. That meant he had to block the psycho terrorist out of his mind for a minute. T-bird started pecking at his shoulder again, though Blair couldn't tell if that was helpful or not.

“Mr. Kincaid, that’s enough,” came a new voice. Blair looked over at a dark haired man in a blue lab coat that was exiting one of the other room-cells. He was probably about Kincaid’s age, but he looked like a former model who knew how to age gracefully, somehow immune to the obnoxious glitches of human time like wrinkles and gray hair.

“I’m allowed out here, this is my good behavior time,” said Kincaid, annoyed.

“Then get on the good behavior, soldier,” the doctor returned as an order. Kincaid obviously didn't see the doctor as his superior because he didn't snap to attention or exhibit the slightest change in behavior. As far as Blair could tell, there wasn’t a lot of respect held for the doctor. Blair kept his attention on the computer screen, hoping not to be noticed. It didn’t work.

“As for you... Is there something I can help you with here?” the doctor asked Blair, not sounding like he wanted overmuch to help. “And may I see your credentials?”

Annoyed, Blair shrugged his arm out of T-bird’s poking and prodding, and held up his passkey with the high clearance. He didn’t let go of the card, though. His clearance was set by the warden herself; like hell he would let someone take it away. Kincaid’s doctor was a man named Oliver Falwell, a familiar name from the files Blair had been reviewing that afternoon. Blair had never met him, only rarely ever interacted with his supervisor; he wasn't the only psycho in a lab coat in Ward Six, he just acted like the place was his to command. Blair was immune and he had a badge to prove it.

“I’ve been here, like, a month? I’m here for the less-science side of science,” Blair informed the man after the introductions were grudgingly made.

“You’ll have to explain that one,” said Falwell.

“ _You_ test things with statistics and lab beakers and... shit. I test things that run off a more human side of things, the social maps that can't be quantified with a scalpel,” Blair said, distracted trying to read and talk at the same time. He held up a hand, wiggled his fingers to back up the point. “I’m more hands off. Like magic.”

“Magic isn't real, Mr. Sandburg,” said Falwell. Blair nodded.

“Yeah, I get it. You play with the human genetic equivalent of unicorns all day and yet magic isn't real. See, _that's_ why Miranda called me in. That is _exactly_ why I am here. So much job security in this place. Wow.”

“Actually it's the opposite. If magic doesn't exist, and I can prove that, there is no need for someone to explain the human delusions that brought it about.” Falwell seemed like a cranky human. T-bird didn't seem to like him, which was something Blair felt to his soul. For maybe a full second he even felt bad for Kincaid.

“There’s not very faithful of you,” he observed. “I mean, if you really believed in science, you would have to allow for something so simple as Schroedinger’s theory. If it doesn't exist, it could also exist, and the only way to find out is to look.” Blair waved a hand at the still lurking Kincaid.

“You have a whole box of cats just sitting in that quantum state of dead and alive out there. Science means you look, over and over again. Methodically. Until something makes sense. So maybe if you haven't found anything so far, maybe it's because you've been ignoring that human element to all these unicorns you're trying to say don't exist. And maybe, by insisting on that so hard, for all you’re looking to uncover a particular outcome, just _maybe_ you’re proving yourself completely wrong. You won't know until you find it. So science says you bring in the piece you've been ignoring so far. That's where I come in. I can test the things you can't.”

It was hard to sell the pitch knowing what Falwell did to his collection of humans. But that was the official line, that was why Miranda kept him on board with full clearance. Blair was sticking to it. And suddenly it was topical. He went straight to the source. “Take Jim Ellison for example. What did you find out when you had him up here?”

Falwell shrugged it off. “Nothing. He’s useless. The only reason he’s still here is we can’t reintroduce him to society. He’s too high profile.”

The blunt admission took Blair completely off guard. “Excuse me?”

“The testing resulted in nothing. Everything was completely normal human anatomy. Like Mr. Kincaid, really,” said Falwell. He looked to the convict lurking nearby. “But Kincaid has a chemical resilience that we can still learn from. Ellison’s supposed oddities that brought him to our attention originally are apparently all in his head. He presented normal in every test we applied. It’s in his file.”

The only thing keeping Blair from flipping the cart in front of him and going after the supposed doctor was the fact that he still needed the cart and the information contained on the computer it held, maybe more than ever now. That, and Kincaid was watching him, calculating, the slight grin on his face that said he was looking forward to a reaction to the doctor’s provocation. Blair refused to give either of them any kind of satisfaction on the subject. He shrugged and shook his head, forcing his attention back to the computer screen. T-Bird made a grumbling noise and shoved his way into Blair’s attention. Blair tried to dodge the beak and ignore him.

“I don’t know about that, man. I wrote an entire thesis on that guy, and you can’t find _anything_?” he said.

“We don’t do that kind of science here,” Falwell told him. Blair shook his head. Frustrated with where they were in life, he shut down the research project for the night. He needed to rethink a few things more than he needed to get pissed off about arrogant mad scientists.

“You _didn’t,_ ” he corrected. “You do now.”

 

****


	5. Chapter 5

_________

 

“No. Absolutely not.”

The answer was surprising. Why wouldn't Stiles’ own father be completely onboard with the only working plan to break Stiles out of a place designed to contain dangerous monsters? Allison stepped back from the table where Lydia had laid out the plans, crossed her arms as she tried to find what the sheriff had seen.

“But this is how we get Stiles,” said Scott, like somehow the sheriff had missed the point. Stiles’ dad shook his head.

“No it isn't.”

“Why not?” insisted Lydia. “These people have the money and the manpower that we would need, and they aren't government, so Scott’s dad can't get to them-”

“That’s why, Lydia,” said the sheriff. He picked up one of the newspaper articles that Lydia had printed about the people they wanted to work with, pointed to the headline. “These people _kill_ _people_. You understand? They will kill more people than they save. And one of them could be Stiles. Or Derek. Or Sandburg. You can't just set them loose on a heavily armed compound and expect zero-casualties.”

“You can't break somebody outta prison and expect zero-casualties,” Allison’s dad chimed in. “The kids are right. The Patriots could organize this if we sell them the information we’ve got. We keep our hands clean from that point on-”

Stiles’ dad got angry at the simplification. “You put Stiles in front of a fanatic’s rifle scope!”

“That's why we _sell_ them what we have! Then, later, we make sure they know we want people out, we want them unharmed. They give us Stiles and Derek and we give them _money_ ,” said Lydia. Allison raised an eyebrow at her friend. Lydia was determined, not quite as rabid as she could be, but surprisingly more invested in Stiles’ rescue than Allison had expected. It was just one of a few surprising developments she had seen since being back, and it actually made Allison feel better. Her friend wasn't the vapid cheerleader she had once pretended to be, and Lydia Martin would bring the full force of her skills to war with anything that threatened what was important to her. The small glitch was that, at the moment, the only person most directly in Lydia’s way was Stiles’ dad.

“Okay, hold on,” Allison announced. Her head was aching and the Tylenol she had taken wasn't touching it, so her thinking was a little fuzzy again. But she had half an idea. She took the paper back from the sheriff and started looking through the messy pile of printouts on the table. Everyone stepped back to let her move things around the space more freely. It wasn’t like Allison had been besties with Stiles, he was a little too weird and hyper for her, they didn’t think alike at all. But that didn’t stop her from understanding how Stiles worked in her group of friends. And it was his dad who would take the most convincing to start a plan in motion that Stiles would have probably approved of.

When Allison stepped back from the table, she had things arranged something like a map, with pieces overlapping that went together, or separated and linear if they weren’t so obviously related. It looked like a crime scene lab on a table instead of a whiteboard or a wall, complete with post-it notes.

“There,” she said. It looked like a complete order of operations to her. Lydia tilted her head at it before looking at Allison with a fair amount of surprise. Allison looked back at her, waving to the papers. “Start over. Explain it like Stiles would.”

Stiles’ dad squinted between the girls. “Stiles used a chess board and made no sense. And your idea _still_ results in dead people, so nope. Just... no.”

Lydia sighed. They were talking to a wall, and it kind of made sense that the sheriff wouldn’t want to sign off on something that would get people killed. The trick was to convince him that they had a better shot at success than what he was seeing. They were running on faith, but at this point, Allison didn’t know where that faith came from or what it was in. She was alive, tied to her friends, because of a tree... a dead one, even. So that didn’t leave a lot of room for belief in the usual things people had faith in, like Sheriff Stilinski would be looking for.

Surprisingly, it was Scott who stepped up. “Okay. Just hear me out, okay? We’ve gotta go to the Sunrise Patriots. They exist for a reason, right? Their whole thing is that the government is bad, and look what my dad did, just to prove them right. Why not have it help out Stiles for once. I mean, all we’ve got to do is sell them information on the prison so they can get everybody out. And look at the stuff we’ve got here. Schematics and blueprints and just... We already did their work for them,” said Scott. He pointed to the complex diagrams and the photos that Lydia and Danny had scrubbed with Blair Sandburg’s help.

“They _have to_ agree. This way, they’ll know where their guy Kincaid is and know exactly how to get to him. There’s not going to be total chaos in a place this big if they’re only going after a single section of the compound. This is the stuff the Patriots do, right? Lydia said those guys have gone apeshit creepy crazy since 9/11 and they’ll have the firepower to get through the front doors. That’s all Stiles and Derek are gonna need. They just need a way through the walls.”

There were a dozen news articles of places the Sunrise Patriots had tried raiding since they lost track of their beloved leader in the late nineties. One of the articles even mentioned the detective duo, somebody-Ellison and Stiles’ new friend on the inside, Sandburg, as people who had helped prevent the Patriots from succeeding in their attacks. Scott pointed it out.

“Blair knows these guys, and if he’s on the inside, if he’s helping Stiles, then they’ll know what to do. He can get them out, like he said when he was still working with us on this.”

“And, best news ever, the sanctuary doesn’t _legally_ exist,” added Lydia, dry sarcasm in place. “So there will be no press conference. Nobody will freak out, the public will never know. And all we need to do is make sure we’re there when the chaos happens so we can get Stiles and Derek and get the heck home.”

“It’s not _just_ the Patriots here,” the sheriff argued. “It’s a jail for werewolves and... and... whatever else is out there. And you’re talking about just letting them _all_ loose.”

“If we’re lucky, they’ll take out some of the Patriots since the cops can’t get to them,” said Scott, missing the point entirely. Allison pinched the bridge of her nose and didn’t say anything. He got points for trying, anyway. He was paying attention. Stiles’ dad wasn’t settled by the sideways logic.

“I _mean_ , Scott, they’ll be letting violent people out of jail when they were put in there to rot because they’re actually killing machines with claws and teeth. And nobody knows about that place, so nobody will know how to handle the sudden mob of monsters,” said Sheriff Stilinski. “I love my kid more than anything else, but you’re telling me he’d sign off on killing innocent families who get caught in that crossfire?”

He had a point. But...

“That’s where my dad and I come in, isn’t it?” said Allison. Her dad nodded toward her in confirmation.

“We have our connections,” he said. “If we can get a wave of hunters behind the Patriots, there’s a lot of territory between that prison and civilization. If the Patriots let out monsters, we can take care of it. We helped build that place, we can help protect it.”

The logic was kind of hard to argue. The sheriff didn’t seem convinced that the risks were all worth it, though.

“You’re going to put Scott and Derek directly in the line of fire,” he pointed out. “Let alone Stiles`”

“Scott can’t go,” said Lydia simply. That change in plans was already a debated and resolved issue. Scott had resoundingly lost the argument and no claws came into play. “He has to stay here and help you keep his dad busy.”

“It will just be my dad and Lydia and me,” said Allison. “That’s it. We can’t risk any other attention up there. And between Dad’s contacts and mine, we should be able to get enough local backup for whatever the Patriots choose to do. We won’t be alone.”

“It’ll work out, Sheriff,” said Scott, with all the sober sincerity that he was capable of behind the puppy-dog eyes. “We promise.”

Allison watched as the sheriff looked from Scott to Chris, looking for an adult opinion on it. Her dad just shrugged. “I mean, it’s not perfect, but it’s what we’ve got. Something like this is the only way you’ll ever get him back, Sheriff. He’s just a kid, he’s already lost a couple of months of his life to that place. After everything else he’s had hit him this year? You can’t let him stay too long or there won’t be anything of your kid left to save. Not in a place like that.”

Stiles’ dad considered it. He was far from sold on the idea, despite their evidence. He pointed to the table.

“All this stuff is... it’s good work. Maybe it’ll do the job,” he said. Scott started to relax, started to promise again that it would work, but Stiles’ dad shook his head to cut him off. “But you’re gambling on terrorists. Okay? Actual _terrorists_. They don’t think like normal people. This is a big ask.”

He was right, of course. Nobody argued. Everyone waited. They couldn’t move on the prison if they had to worry about the Sheriff of Beacon Hills calling in alarms to law enforcement up in Washington. Legally... he was supposed to report them. But no one felt comfortable taking action to get Stiles back without his father’s approval. It was a gamble at every stage and checking with the sheriff was just the first test of how their luck would hold on an operation like this. It wasn’t looking good so far. Stiles’ dad shook his head.

“Let me think on it,” he said finally. He looked from face to face, wanting to be sure everyone understood and respected his call. “Don’t move on this until I get back to you. Alright?”

“How long?” asked Scott.

“Twenty four hours,” said Lydia. Allison looked over at her friend, surprised by the deadline. Lydia worried at her lip but tried to shrug it off. “I don’t know what it is, Sheriff, but I don’t think we have time. It doesn’t feel like we have time. And I don’t ignore that anymore. I won’t ignore it when it’s about Stiles.”

Stiles’ dad stared at her, weighing it all out. He nodded. “I’ll get back to you when I’ve sorted it out on my end. Twenty four hours.”

Allison frowned, staring at the printouts on the table. It wasn’t good that Lydia was getting anxious. As long as she didn’t scream, everything would work out.

 

***

 

T-bird was a seriously awesome example of nature’s handiwork, but the bird was equal parts annoying and intimidating as well. He had decided, apparently, that Blair wasn’t allowed to leave the Ward. They had spent over an hour together, that apparently made the curly haired cranky man his new best friend. That was why Blair found himself negotiating with a bird for access to the front door, much to the nurses’ entertainment.

“Look man, I have work to do still on- dude- hey!” Blair wasn’t the most skilled at dodging attacks from not-quite-humanoid birds of prey and got his wrist nipped at by a very sharp beak. The nurse behind the desk started giggling as the other one relented and moved over to start helping Blair with their belligerent patient.

At the same time, the door Blair had been trying to get to opened with a warning beeping sound. The warden herself walked in to witness Blair arguing with a bird. Of course. Because that’s how Blair’s day was going. _Awesome_.

“This looks fun,” Miranda said, because she was an obnoxious example of humanity.

“It isn’t,” Blair assured her. T-bird settled up at his shoulder, feathers all fluffed as his rested his forehead to Blair’s jacket and closed his eyes. It was the bird equivalent of a hug, if T-bird followed any kind of usual avian patterns.

“The turkey found a friend,” the nurse offered up. Blair made a face at her for it.

“He's not a _turkey_ -”

“See?” The nurse waved a hand like Blair had just explained everything. Miranda quirked an eyebrow at the expected conclusion. She looked from Blair’s new friend to the nurse.

“Linda? Fetch Thackeray's things, have the crew take them up to Blair’s office. I think he could do with a change in scenery for awhile,” said the warden. She was far too happy about something. Blair squinted at her.

“What?”

“I’m assigning you an assistant,” she said. Blair shook his head quickly.

“No way. I’m barely getting my feet under me here, I can't train anybody-”

“There's no one to train,” Miranda interrupted. She reached out and cautiously stroked the fluffed up feathers of the overlarge bird at Blair’s side. “This is Thackeray. And apparently he has decided to keep you.”

Blair’s jaw dropped open before he could catch up enough to remember manners. Miranda carried on with her decision as she stepped back, crossed her arms, right back into warden-mode.

“T-bird has been here for a long time. He came to us from one of our original doctors, who could never figure out what to do with him. And Thackeray has never so obviously imprinted on a handler. We can't ignore that. Maybe you can figure out what makes a thunderbird tick, Blair. No one else can.”

It took a minute for Blair to get off the mental track that was freaking out about messing with the origins of mythology. For all that he hated the Sanctuary, and Miranda by extension, and everything they stood for and everything they did... they were giving him a _thunderbird_.

“Okay... I can see what we can do... but what am I supposed to do with him-”

“You have an office. He can stay there,” Miranda said. Blair considered his books, then considered the window, and realized a bird very much needed to not be in the windowless coffin of Ward Six.

“Can I take him outside?” he asked. Miranda cut him a sideways glare.

“He won't fly, but for all we know, that doesn't mean he can't. So he stays inside until we have a better idea what goes on in his head.”

That seemed reasonable, even if Blair disagreed with keeping a thunderbird as a pet. On another level, the scientist in him didn't want to just lose a treasure of myth once it was in hand, either. And for that, Blair hated himself, but at least he knew T-bird would be safe with him. He nodded.

“We’ll be careful then,” he said. He paused and then, on a whim, pushed his luck a little. “While we're at it, are there any other projects you'd like me to check into?”

Miranda punched a code in the door as she thought it over, popping it open and holding it aside for Blair and his new charge. “I’ll think it over and get back to you.”

 

****

 

The day had been busy. Sandburg had gone from clueless and punching a clock to buy himself some time, to suddenly drowning in information he didn't know what to do with. And the addition of a large bird didn't help at all, since Blair had spent the last two hours of his life bird-proofing his office - no easy task, considering his office was three walls of book-laden shelves and one wall of floor to ceiling glass - instead of process the day’s news. It was dark out now, T-bird had stopped trying to break the supernatural-proof glass with his body to reach the open sky outside, he was tucked away inside his cozy nest-cage-mess, and it was probably safe to leave him there unsupervised overnight. _Maybe_. Blair hoped, anyway. Which meant Blair could go home and try to untangle the strings of information he had found.

He got as far as his truck before his cell phone rang. Because sure, why not? What was _one more_ thing?

“Sandburg,” he greeted, distracted fighting his keys in the dark and the rain. He got the door opened and shoved his backpack inside, slammed the heavy steel door and listened to it echo for a moment, a flurry of sound as he ran from the rain. The noise on the roof wasn't the most helpful, either.

“-Stilinski. Stiles’ dad...” was all Blair caught. He crawled into the driver's seat of the truck, pounded his head on his arm crossed over the top of the wheel.

“Sheriff! Noah! Hi! What's going on?” Blair was bad at sounding normal when things weren't normal, but he tried.

“How’s my son?” asked the sheriff.

“He’s- well, I mean, he's still _here_ , so I can't say he's good, but, to be honest, he's not the problem _for once_ so he’s as good as can be expected,” Blair replied.

“Do I want to know what the hell that actually means?” The sheriff didn't sound upset, more worried and confused. Blair actually had to think about it.

“Probably not,” he decided. “There's this weird thing that happened with Derek a few weeks ago, and we only just found out about it. It's... just been a really long day.”

“Right... but Stiles is-”

“Stiles is fine. I think. I promise. I’ll let you know the second that changes,” said Blair.

“Well... I was kind of... look, is there a way I could talk to him again? Like before? Can you get him to a phone? Anything like that?”

Surprised by the question, Blair sat up straight on the truck bench, stared out the rainy windshield. That was a damn good idea. Maybe the best thing he had heard from anyone all day.

“I think... you know, man... I think I could. We could try it. Once, at least. I’ll... I’ll see what I can do.”

 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is hectic, but this is still going!! :)


	6. Chapter 6

The walls of the Sanctuary were somehow as boring as they were interesting. For the first three levels, there were no windows. Just solid wall, smooth, and a black glass-blended cement of some kind. It had to be strong enough to withstand werewolves and monsters, so it had to be thick. Sealed with something to protect against the shredding of claws. There wasn't much that could be that strong, The evidence was cluttered around the base of the wall, clumps of rock and shredded dust for proof of all the Sanctuary’s residents who had tried to climb over the walls or dig their way through them.

It hadn't been attempted in a while. Derek wasn't sure what kind of chances they had with whatever scheme Stiles could cook up, but the walls weren't a very good omen. They didn't bother Stiles as much as the noise and the stench of the place did. It would do no good to point out the failed efforts to him, it wouldn't change his mind now that he had the go-ahead from Derek to come up with a new escape idea off of Blair’s information.

It was stuffy inside the den and it was rainy outside of it, so Stiles sat in between, in what passed for a doorway, and Derek leaned against the tree trunk that helped build up the mouth of the den. Derek stared at the wall out beyond their tiny hillside forest in the middle of the yard. He felt drugged, his mind fuzzy and slow. There was no way he would mention it to Stiles or anyone else, aside from maybe Blair. They didn't have answers and whatever was up with Derek would only muddy up the questions more. He was probably just imagining things anyway.

So it was that his mom found him just barely not standing in the rain, scrubbing at his face to get rid of a headache. Victoria was with her, like usual, and she didn't seem impressed by Stiles’ choice to sit in the doorway.

“You’ll get sick out here,” Victoria pointed out as Stiles scrambled to put away his worn blueprint copies. “And if you get your mother sick because of it, you’re out of the den.”

“Lay off,” grumbled Derek. Talia looked from Stiles to Derek then, eyebrow raised.

“What's wrong, Derek?” his mom asked, concern under the caution. Derek tried to shrug it off.

“Headache. I’m fine. Just don't want to deal with micromanaging right now,” he said. Victoria bristled at the passive rebuke, but she didn't do more than glare about it. Stiles stood up off the blanket then, backpack over his shoulder as he started cleaning up where he had been working.

“We’ll go inside,” he said. “It's too dark out now anyway.”

“Cloudy was looking for you,” Talia told him. Derek rolled his eyes as Stiles’ heart rate went through the proverbial roof.

“Uh... I’ll see her in the morning. Probably.” The pitiful effort at lying earned him a raised eyebrow from each of his mother’s friends. “What? We’re gonna go in.”

Derek glared out at the far away walls; Stiles was a terrible liar.

“What’s going on?” Victoria asked. Derek tried to ignore her. Stiles shrugged it off and tried to lie again.

“Nothing. We’re just gonna go inside...”

“Uh huh, no,” said Talia. She looked to Derek. “That was not his _nothing_ face.”

“Well, damn. His secret is out. Stiles is awkward. Don't let that one get around, huh? He has a reputation to maintain...” drawled Derek, a sly grin on his face.

“And that... that was more your uncle than you,” said Talia. She crossed her arms and squared up with her son. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I've got a headache. I want to go to sleep.”

“Derek, you should know... thanks to you, I can tell when you lie, too. Loud and clear,” chimed in Victoria.

“Oh, don't start-” returned Stiles, defensive even as Derek narrowed his eyes at the woman.

“No,” snapped Talia. She stood, square-shouldered between her second and her son. She looked from one to the other. “Start. I’m tired of the two of you doing this every few days. It's been a month now. Work on it.”

“There’s nothing to work on,” said Derek. “She doesn't like me, I don't like her or her family.”

“Allison’s pretty awesome,” Stiles said. The interruption was his usual panic breaking through, the peacekeeper with soft and squishy insides surrounded by teeth and claws. “We can agree on that, right? And- and she's alive, and she’s fine, and- wow am I not helping. Okay. Uh...”

Stiles flailed around a little but backed off, hands up. Victoria scowled at him.

“Really? What was your first clue?” she asked. Stiles waved at her.

“You. Your heart rate went up like _whoa_ and I’m pretty sure you need to get your blood pressure checked.”

All three werewolves squinted at Stiles for that. It didn't help his eloquence. He tapped at his ear before tugging on it.

“She made a weird sound, okay? I can't describe it, don't make me, it just didn't sound healthy,” he said.

“She’s fine,” Talia assured him. Derek stood up from the tree then, caught at Stiles’ arm.

“He’s not. He needs to go inside before he whites out again,” said Derek, voice quiet. Stiles shoved at him.

“Oh that's bullsh-”

“You _just said_ you heard her _blood pressure_. We can go check with Ellison but I think that's a little too amped up, _chief_ ,” Derek interrupted. Stiles fell silent, mouth hanging open mid-word as the logic sunk in. He nodded and agreed. Derek took the stolen woven blanket off Stiles’ shoulder and dumped it over his head as an umbrella before shoving him out to the rain. His mom caught his arm before they could get far.

“That's a nice distraction technique but I’m not buying it, sweetie. He's been hiding from his mother all day and you've got yourself a stress headache and a bad attitude. Tell me what's going on or _Victoria_ babysits Stiles until you fess up.” Talia wasn't kidding with the threat, either. “So talk or we pull rank on the both of you.”

“Hey, wait a minute...”

“There's a cell under Ward Six we can put your name on,” said Victoria. Stiles started to argue that one, too, and Talia reached out to put a hand over his mouth.

“If you aren't answering me, you don't need to talk right now,” said Talia. Stiles looked to Derek, at a loss over the obvious blatant abuse. Annoyed, Derek relented.

“Blair found something in Ward Six this morning. It's a problem. And he thinks it has to do with when I was up there. But I don't know how. I don't remember,” he told the two bossy women.

“Blair was gonna get more info on it and then he was gonna check back,” added Stiles. “It might be why I kept whiting out over there. We don't know enough yet.”

“And it's why we don't want _him_ going anywhere near the place,” said Derek. “Whatever is going on, it can get in his head and take over. I've already seen a version of that. We don't want that to be a thing _here_.”

“Then he should stay out here,” said Talia, her anger traded for concern. “The den has more of a natural barrier against whatever comes out of that wing. Inside you just have metal and cold-”

Derek looked from Talia to Stiles. It was his call, but he didn't agree it would be the best option. He was afraid of different things than his mother was, though. His mom had never dealt with the nogitsune. Derek and Stiles had. And neither of them wanted Stiles around people they cared about if whatever was in Ward Six crawled in his brain while he was asleep like he had said the nogitsune could. Stiles shook his head.

“It's better in our cell. More white-noise between me and it,” Stiles said. Derek nodded his agreement. They just had to actually sleep, no fooling around and amping up Stiles’ senses. They had a plan. It would work. “And nature kinda _fed_ the nogitsune, so I think maybe I’m safer sleeping around metal.”

Derek glanced at Stiles for the fib but it went unnoticed by the two women who had no way to know the truth. Technically Stiles hadn't lied, as long as he defined lightning a force of nature, which it was. But it was enough to make Derek think twice about hanging around Stiles and metal suddenly. Whatever was in Ward Six wasn't the nogitsune though. Stiles would be fine.

“I’ll take whatever keeps it out of his head when he’s asleep,” Derek said. Talia didn't like it but she relented.

“When is Blair back? I want to ask him about this,” she asked instead. Derek shrugged.

“Tomorrow, maybe? It depends on what he finds and when he finds it,” said Stiles. Talia nodded. She let Derek move away then, with a parting smack up the backside of his head.

“Go away,” she told him. “And in the future you think twice before lying to your mother, young man. I’m not above siccing the dogs on you.”

It was a genuine admonishment but not a genuine threat and Derek let slip a grin. His mom was an alpha, held power and smarts and knew how to use both, so she could have him taken down for pissing her off. But that wasn't how his mom worked. She would take him down herself first. His saving grace was that there was no point in it from within the walls of the Sanctuary. They were stuck together. Everybody had to get along. On the heels of that was her point: everyone had to trust each other. That meant telling the truth. Derek paused to kiss his mom on the cheek as he left in silent apology. They would have to tell her something tomorrow; hopefully by then Blair would have more to go on.

 

****


	7. Chapter 7

There was nothing interesting in the cafeteria food at the Sanctuary. It was completely bland, most of it came out of cans at some point, and generally wasn't poisoned. There was no way to know for certain on the poison, but it was an educated guess on Jim’s part. At Bly, he had been handed his meals through a slot in the door, and he could always tell when that food was drugged. He had been given the choice to starve or to subject himself to poison more times than he could keep track, earning either a three day blackout or a trippy high. But the Sanctuary had the equivalent of a feeding trough. There was no way to know how the different kinds of drugs would affect the different kinds of supernatural beings that relied on it. So in that case, bland food was good enough. It was better than military jungle rations, too.

There wasn't much choice for Jim in the company he kept at mealtimes though. He had Hale pack, or Stiles. With Stiles, though, came Derek. And with Derek came the troubles of the Hale pack. It was a catch 22 that made for quick meals for Jim. Especially when Stiles and Derek bailed on him to go see why the lockdown alarm went off. It left him with Talia and Claudia rather directly, and lately he was having a hard time stomaching their company more than any problems with the bland food. So when the boys abandoned their plates, Jim kept to his own to finish faster.

But it was frustrating to feel like he was running from a couple of women, too. He had kept quiet for a month now, kept their secrets for them, and the only one it seemed to have any impact on was Jim. He was a cop, he could tackle any undercover operation he was ever assigned, but the women wanted him to lie to Blair, to a couple of kids who trusted him to help them. That was a level of cold that Jim wasn't good with and it just kept dragging on.

Instead of running away from the women this time, Jim saw an opportunity. He looked up from his food to catch Talia’s attention.

“When are you gonna tell them?” he asked. The woman’s usual good mood shifted quickly to something more neutral that could go either way. She was dangerous like that, good with masks, unreadable.

“I’m not sure I should,” she said. “It wouldn't be doing them any favors at this point.”

“Bullshit,” said Jim. “Lying isn't doing them any favors. They’re goddamned adults now. You can't decide for them-”

“Oh, but you can?” replied Talia.

Jim scowled and stabbed rather viciously at his scrambled eggs and ham. “I think it isn't up to either of us to figure out what's doing them any favors in this place. Which means telling them and letting them figure it out.”

“I think it’s not the right time,” offered up Claudia. She was a mouse in the lion’s den but she spoke up anyway. “Derek’s hurt still and scared. Like everybody else. Any changes showing up now would just unbalance him further. And that would set off Stiles. He doesn't trust easy, neither of them do, and they would go into hiding again, like before-”

“So, just to be clear here,” said Jim. “You’re suggesting the way to best handle a couple kids who don't trust people is to lie to them as long as possible, therefore validating every fear they've got about trusting people? That’s what I'm hearing is the plan. Just wanna confirm.”

There was no answer to that. Just a pocket of guilty silence in a room full of chatter and clattering plates. Jim shook his head at them, judging them really hard and making sure they knew it. As he finished off his food, he shrugged and stood up from the table.

“You know what. Fine. We're all adults here. As long as we all accept responsibility for our choices, right? I’m not part of that mess, so I can't help you. Do what you want.”

Jim walked away from the table still angry, but unwilling to stick around and make it worse. He just had to stick around to help Stiles with the senses stuff, and the kid was getting better at it. Maybe if they were all lucky, his special supernatural spark would make it all go quickly. Then Jim could disappear back into the obscurity of the yard and not endanger Blair by being too involved in the Sanctuary’s pet projects.

 

***

 

Nobody paid attention to the lockdowns anymore. They were used to them. It was somewhat predictable, morning visits, about an hour after breakfast when everyone was drowsy from food and boredom. Stiles was wide awake and antsy. He could hear the noise of the machine from Ward Six that Jim didn't like. It was a loud distraction over the sounds of the cell block. Then the lights started flashing, the cell gates rattled, and Stiles ran for the door, hoping for answers.

“What did you find out? Anything?” Stiles asked immediately. Blair looked between Stiles and Derek.

“Let's go outside, huh?” he asked. “I... got something else.”

“Oh my god are you kidding...” That was the absolute last thing Stiles wanted to hear. Blair had a smirk on his face as he waved him toward the far end of the hall.

“Would ya just trust me on this? Come on, man, I wouldn't show up if it wasn't worth it,” he promised. Stiles grudgingly went along with it.

“Den,” Blair said when Stiles tried to stop moving once they were away from the cameras over the door.

“We kinda didn't tell Talia...” said Stiles. Blair looked to Derek.

“We needed more answers before we told them anything,” said Derek. Blair rolled his eyes almost as good as any Hale.

“I call bullshit,” he said. “Who knows how long it'll be before we get anything resembling answers.”

“Look, you don't know them, alright?” said Stiles. “If you tell Talia there’s two of her son, she’ll shoot the messenger. If you tell Victoria, she's half as likely to shoot the clone. Which, I mean, fine, I'm okay with that, but it doesn't get us any answers either, and we still don't know what happens when we kill it-”

Blair stared at Stiles, slackjawed. “Dude. Do you ever _listen_ to yourself? Just, you know, to make sure the words are coming out in the right order, or anything?”

“He sounds a lot like you, actually,” said Derek. “Jim complains about it. Calls him _chief_ , too.”

There was a certain smugness to Derek’s tone. Stiles accepted the defense gloating. Blair frowned a bit.

“He calls everybody that,” said Blair.

“Not around here,” said Stiles. Derek nodded, offered up a disinterested shrug.

“I’m just saying, the only time I've ever heard somebody question Stiles’ parentage, it was Jim, and _you_ were the one he was swearing at,” said Derek. Stiles’ smug outlook faded a little as he realized the defense was a mockery of them both. He shoved at Derek for it, earning a laugh. Derek held his hands up, the picture of innocence.

“Don't shoot the messenger, remember?”

At least Derek was in a good spirit about everything.

It wasn't until they got out to the cover of the trees that Stiles’ mood shifted. Blair held out a hand, nodded Stiles’ attention to it. “Here.”

It was a pass off, not intended to be public, so Stiles didn't argue, just reached out. Blair dropped a burner flip-phone into his hand.

“Call your dad. This was his idea. I don't know why we can't try it,” said Blair. “I checked the carriers for this area, we should have coverage. It just depends on if they have any blocking tech out there on the roof or something...”

Safely hidden in the trees, Stiles still tried to hide the phone in his hands. It was charged and ready to go, even had numbers programmed into it. Derek looked at him, surprised but mildly disinterested; his family was here, aside from Cora, so he had no need for the outside line.

“If it's not blocked, they could still pick up on the call,” he warned. “And given how much Scott’s dad hates the sheriff, his phones are probably bugged. I wouldn't trust it.”

Stiles nodded silent agreement but punched the buttons for his dad’s cellphone anyway.

The connection was fuzzy, Stiles could tell as it rang. He angled to use his friends and the trees as extra antenna to try to clear the static but it wasn't fully successful. By the time his dad picked up, Stiles didn't care. He could hear his dad perfectly through the white noise.

“Stilinski.”

“Dad! I got a phone! It's a shitty connection but-”

“Oh my god- Stiles? You’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re good up here. This place is so weird... I met a dude who turns into a jaguar-” Stiles was momentarily distracted by the instantaneous, very visible reaction from Blair at that news. The man was surrounded by werewolves and he thought jaguars were a surprise? Stiles pulled a face at the man for it but went back to worrying about his dad. “And dad! I- I kinda saved Derek? Like, two weeks ago, they tried to kill him, and I brought him back to life-”

“I told you CPR was important-”

“No... no-this is a... I mean...” Stiles stalled out. The sudden realization of everything his father didn't know hit him like a brick wall. His dad didn't know Claudia Stilinski was still alive. Lowering the phone, Stiles looked to Blair, looking for a lifeline out of the sudden impossible situation he had found himself in. “You didn't tell him? About the... the... things and stuff?”

Blair shrugged and shook his head. He looked confused and apologetic all at once. “I dunno, man. I didn’t want to _out_ anybody...”

“Stiles? Where'd you go?” came his dad’s tiny voice through the phone. Shit. Stiles didn't know what to do. What if his dad found out his mom was still alive? Would he be surprised?

Or did his dad already know? Had he put his wife in this place like Allison’s dad had put Victoria away?

That was a non-option. Stiles rejected that hard. He had to physically pull back from the thought. It wasn't his dad. But he didn't want to risk finding out otherwise over the phone. He wasn't sure what he could tell his dad suddenly, because everything eventually got around to his mom. And even if everything was perfect, there was nothing his dad could do to for either of them, and it would kill his dad.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said after a minute. “It's just weird reception here. Are you okay? Is everybody okay?”

“Yeah... I think everyone’s okay. There’s some... some weird stuff with Scott and them but I guess that’s normal, huh?” his dad asked. He sounded rough but like he was aiming for a joke, so Stiles managed to smile.

“Yeah, that’s pretty normal.” said Stiles. He could hear his dad intake a breath, that silent stuttering indecision when he wanted to say something but couldn’t land on the right words. So he waited through the white noise static that his dad apparently couldn’t hear anyway, just appreciating having a phone in his hand again in the first place. He could call his dad. As it got quiet in the clearing, he saw Blair check his watch, grimace at the time. He tapped Derek on the arm, waved back toward the doors in a silent request for escort through the weird.

“I gotta get in. I got a... new assistant...” Blair said, quiet. Derek looked to Stiles and the phone, Blair waved it off. “You guys keep it. Let me know when it needs charged, I’ll charge it in my office, right? That’s all I can figure to do about it but... it’s better than nothing.”

Stiles nodded, whatever reply he might have had to it dying as his dad asked, “Do you need to go?”

“No! No, just Blair. I’m here...” Stiles waved absently to let his friends leave. Aware that he was staying by himself in the clearing, he moved over to a tree to make sure he had something at his back if he had no one handy for a look out.

“Okay. Good. I don’t know how long you’ve got, but... I guess... I’ve got a... well, I guess, I wanna know your take on something, kiddo,” his dad said. Curious, Stiles nodded.

“Sure. I kinda got the time.”

“Well, what’s it mean when a banshee wants to make a suicide run?” his dad asked. That was a surprise for so many reasons. Stiles considered it, tried to factor in what Derek had mentioned about the call maybe being monitored. He really wanted to know what was going on in Beacon Hills now, but he was plenty afraid to ask. He had to gamble blind. He made the call and would stand by his decision.

“It means it’ll work out, whatever it is, otherwise she’d be screaming, not running,” Stiles told him.

“So you trust her?” his dad asked. Even though his dad couldn’t see him, Stiles nodded. It was a stupid question, he thought. He almost forgot that he needed to answer it out loud.

“The banshee I know? Hell yeah. I trust that one with my life, Dad.”

He heard his dad take in a ragged breath, let out a low, barely heard whistle that was still very loud to Stiles just then. He frowned. Then his dad spoke up again.

“Right. Well. I guess that’s what we’re doing then, son. Can’t exactly explain right now, but... just be careful, okay? Keep yourself safe,” he said.

“Dad... Are you sure _you’re_ okay?”

“Yep. I’m fine. Better now, anyway. If I’d tried to tell her no way, it might be a different answer. But if you trust her judgement... I guess I’ll sit this one out.”

Stiles leaned against the tree, frustrated and confused and afraid to ask about any of it. Lydia was going to do something stupid. But there was a whole wide world of stupid to choose from, so he had no idea what the scheme might be.

“Dad.... I mean, I get it’s not the best time but, like... what is she doing?” he finally asked. Even if his dad plead the fifth or told him not to ask or whatever he could possibly come up with, Stiles decided it was better than worrying about it. His dad seemed to catch on. He seemed to think it over, weigh it out the same as Stiles had.

“She’s determined on doing something Sandburg said was impossible,” his dad finally told him. “She’s argued with both of us about it now. So if you trust she’s not crazy... I’ll stay out of her way.”

“She’s not crazy,” Stiles promised. He wanted to call Lydia - her number was programmed into the phone, Stiles had seen her initials in the list as he scrolled to his dad’s - but yet again he was stuck with the worry that he was being snooped on. He couldn't risk it. “Tell her I said good luck.”

“I’ll do that-”

There was an overly loud crunching noise as boots stomped through sticks and leaves nearby. Stiles cringed and held his hand over his ear, reminded himself to dial it down. He was focused on listening to his dad, had everything turned up way too loud because of the phone’s white noise.

“Stiles?” Talia called out. Stiles started swearing out loud because that was another surprise he didn't want to drop on his dad over the phone. The number of undead from Beacon Hills in the Sanctuary would probably cause his dad to have a heart attack. Stiles wouldn't chance it.

“Hey! Uh! Dad? I gotta go. Derek needs my help with a.. a guide thing...”

“Guide thing?”

“It's- a long story. But I got a phone now, so... next time, okay?”

“Okay...”

“Sorry... I just really gotta go. I'll call back soon, I promise,” Stiles added. Talia appeared from behind an evergreen and Stiles held a finger to his lips, desperately signaling for silence. The woman stopped, waited patiently with a look of suspicious curiosity on her face. Lately that was her default setting around anything Stiles and/or Derek were involved in, and proof she was a wise alpha. She let Stiles say goodbye, didn't mock him or judge him for telling his dad he loved him too, and actually let him wipe his face, breathe a minute. Then she stared pointedly at the phone in his hand. She was waiting.

“Blair brought me a phone. Dad wanted to talk to me-”

“Where is Blair?” Talia asked. “You were going to bring him back...”

“Yeah, but he couldn't stay. He said something about a new assistant?” Stiles shrugged. It wasn't what Talia wanted to hear. But she accepted it. Her disappointment softened a little.

“What did you tell your dad?” she asked, nodding toward the phone.

“Nothing,” said Stiles. It was catching up to him, too. He felt panicked, felt the indecision and the sadness at the reminder of his impossible situation. “I couldn't tell him anything. He can't help. It’ll kill him.”

Talia seemed to understand. “Does he still drink?”

Stiles cringed at the question. He held up the phone then, waved it around before putting it in his pocket. “Only when he can't deal. And he can't help us, so... _this_ would maybe do it.”

“Maybe you should talk to Cloudy about it,” Talia suggested. “You’re not the best liar. Maybe the two of you should come up with a united front on how to handle your dad’s calls.”

Stiles frowned at that, a little offended despite how true her words were. “What’s she supposed to do about it?” he asked. “I mean, no offense or anything, but she’s been gone so long. She doesn't even know the guy anymore. You don't. And he won't be coming here ever, he’ll never see your faces or anything. It’s kinda on me.”

Talia didn't get mad at him for it. She actually smiled at him. Apparently he had made a grown-up decision all by himself that passed the alpha-test.

“I’d say that's fair,” she said. “But be nice to your dad. That’s all I ask, on your mom’s behalf. We’re all up to our necks in secrets.”

“Yeah, me and Derek got kicked in the head by them, remember?” Stiles rolled his eyes at the needless warning.

“Yeah,” said Talia. Her smile had faded off. Something bothered her but she wasn't sharing. She instead crossed her arms, closed off. “You, by the way, owe your mom a visit.”

Finally cornered, Stiles cringed and wished he could pretend he hadn't heard the order.

 

*****

 

The drop-and-ditch phone ploy made Blair feel just a little guilty. He felt like he was lying to Stiles. But he wasn't, really, and he needed to talk to Derek before he talked to anyone else. It was his file Blair had snooped on, it was his miserable experience of life in the Ward Six funhouse, so it was up to Derek to decide what he wanted out there.

When they were sufficiently far away from Stiles’ distracted Sentinel hearing, Blair looked over at Derek. “So, uh, I checked on your file. The one in Ward Six.”

Derek’s good mood dropped out. He didn't look at Blair at all, became entirely unreadable. It was about exactly the reaction Blair had predicted would happen, actually, so he charged ahead. “All the notes in your file said was that... you know, what they took from you, they were going to analyze and if anything regenerated externally like they wanted, they would prep it for donation. But without knowing what they’re calling the thing in the test tube, I don't know what it is or how it got your face.”

“But you know what they did?” Derek asked. It didn't sound like an accusation. He sounded very young suddenly, very lost. They had just walked into the cafeteria where there were still people loitering, so Blair just nodded in answer. It wasn't until they got to the cellblock with the door at the end, until they were near the door, that Blair pulled Derek up to talk to him again.

“They were essentially trying to kill you, to see what it would take. Because you’re from a family line of lycanthrope. It's genetic, it's stronger, they were looking to find the trigger switch so they could isolate what exactly causes the reaction,” Blair told him, keeping his voice quiet. “It didn't work, because you never wolfed-out on the table. Because they’re morons, and their brilliant idea to make you shift was to poison you, which any idiot could have told them is the wrong way. You don't trigger fight-or-flight instinct by internal threats. It won't work. You can't run away from yourself. This is just... bad science.”

Derek nodded. His body language said he didn't want to talk about it, with the crossed arms and the far-off stare pointed at one of the cells rather than on Blair. But Derek still said, “Yeah. I remember they dosed me with aconite... right into a vein. I told them they were going to kill me.”

“They, uh... well, they did kill you. Twice even,” Blair said, careful how he approached that part. “The aconite thing, with that, they watched it start to kill your liver, then they basically removed it by removing the infected part of your liver. You went into shock, died, they revived you, and they watched your liver heal back up like it had never been cut in half.”

The topic was making Derek visibly angry, but Blair also saw some signs of distress, like fear. He reached out and set a hand to Derek’s shoulder, trying to keep him grounded with just a little reminder of human reality.

“Hey, man. This place is hell, alright? And you got, like, the crash course in it as soon as you got here. So that's why I wasn't just gonna tell everybody what I found. If you want me to, I will. If you don't, that's fine too. I’m still looking for answers to whatever it is I saw in there. All we really know now is maybe you donated some internal organs to the project, but that's not confirmed.”

Derek nodded, even looked surprised. But he seemed to accept that Blair was telling the truth. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, man,” said Blair. He didn't want to accept thanks for prying into the kid being tortured. He didn't like that he had agreed to the job that allowed him to do it. He hadn't been sleeping so great for a month, and Derek and Jim’s files had only added to the nightmares.

Derek just nodded, dismissing it. There was quiet for a moment, the both of them stuck listening to the sounds from the yard filter past to echo around the cellblock. Then he asked, “So did you really get a new assistant? Or was that bullshit to get away from Stiles?”

It was possible Derek was amused by it but Blair didn't know him well enough to be sure. He shrugged, grinned a little. “A little of both. My _new assistant_ is a thunderbird. I just have to make sure he doesn't destroy my office if he gets bored. I actually need to read that library of books they gave me, not, you know, let him tear it apart.”

“I saw that bird when I was up there,” said Derek. “They just _gave_ you someone from the Ward?”

Blair nodded. “I know. It’s crazy, right? But he wouldn't stop following me around, so they figure I can help him or something.”

Derek did look at him then, was amused. “You're a guide. It makes sense.”

“Ha, right. So are you, as it happens, and last I saw you were doing better at your job than I’ve been at mine,” Blair pointed out. The rare cynicism traded out quickly for teasing sarcasm. “So keep it up. You're an inspiration to us all, man.”

Even if Blair did feel it was true, it was easy to hide behind the sudden squawk of the lockdown warning. Derek flinched as the metal bars started rattling closed along the long corridor. Blair fought the urge to apologize again and instead moved to stand in front of the door. When the noises stopped, it was just the flashing lights and the slowly opening door to the outside.

“Take care of yourself, man,” Blair called over to Derek. The young man nodded and turned to leave. He looked strangely small to Blair then, vulnerable and alone walking down a narrow walkway between rows of prison cells stacked on top of each other. Blair knew what the place could do to people now. And he knew there was nothing he could do to help any of them. The door slid closed then, locking Blair inside a gas chamber for a few seconds before the door opened to the other side. To supposed freedom and high level clearance.

They were all together in this place, all trapped and at risk of life and limb, but they were all alone.

 

*****


	8. Chapter 8

Jim sat with his back against the Sanctuary’s interior walls, a book in his hand and a stolen basketball under his elbow, trying to enjoy a little of the clear morning before the clouds returned. He didn't want to listen to the ringing of the ball whistle in his ears. He just wanted the mild peace of only having to turn down vocal chatter and the slap of worn-out shoes on rubberized concrete. It was manageable, almost normal. As long as nobody started roaring or squeaking or any of the weird shit.

The standard definition of “normal” no longer applied for Jim. It had been a surreal few years since he had first been dragged from Cascade, Washington, to that inhuman asylum back east. Bly House had been a wake-up call to an entirely different world for him. He had been pretty fucked up and worked over by the doctors there, with them looking for all the answers to what made humans tick without bothering to follow the standard User’s Manual. They knew the history, they knew the comparative science on Sentinels that Sandburg had compiled from historical record, from his field observations on heightened senses in other volunteers and from his condensed and magnified notes from his years as Jim’s partner. They just chose to ignore it all, started digging with scalpels and whining machines, looking for the _on/off_ switch that had no physiological trigger. As a result, his senses went in and out between overdrive and dormant, but he couldn't risk telling anybody that now.

That had been Jim’s introduction to the world of the weird, to werewolves and demons, controlled by salts and sawdust and herbal tinctures that had no scientific explanation at all. He watched and suffered along as the psychopathic doctors tried to explain the supernatural by dissecting it for parts. It had left him curled up in a corner for more days than he could keep track of, probably more like months, until the drugs wore off a little. Then he started trusting his eyes, didn't question the discordant sounds he heard coming from only partially humanoid faces, and had to make himself accept it. He was surrounded by it, there was no other choice.

The Sanctuary wasn't much different in that: the weird was everywhere. But the doctors stayed away and Jim wanted to keep it that way. The doctor from Bly had transferred to the Sanctuary after about a year of digging around in Jim’s senses, and he took Jim and a few other pet projects with him. But the Warden had other work for Falwell and Jim was let loose with the weird in the yard to fight it out for a safe place to sleep every night.

Finding Talia there hadn't been any kind of guaranteed safe zone, but she helped. In the revolving door that was Sandburg’s lovelife, the woman they’d known as Samantha Hale had been one of Jim’s favorite matches, and that favoritism paid off when she kept a jaguar-faced chick from tearing his head off the first night he was there. The yard was no picnic. No place for napping. But the yard kept him away from Falwell and Ward Six, so Jim didn't mind.

It helped keep some perspective, too. He was using a basketball to play keep-away with a bunch of young adults who could probably rip his head from his shoulders because they got bored. Instead, they hung back, kept a perimeter, like they were afraid to ask him for the ball. _They_ could turn into _monsters_ , and the presence of monsters got _everyone_ locked up every fourteen days and not let out for a full twenty-four hours. It was a hellish system with no other purpose than to control these humans. And _they_ were afraid to ask _him_ for the ball. What they had in teeth and drool, they still lacked in social skills.

All the same, Jim didn't want the damn migraine that would come from listening to them play, so if they weren't going to ask, he wasn't going to give up possession of the toy. If some asshole in a lab coat could treat him like a lab rat, he could be a jerk about the free pain built into the experience.

The loitering kids were an idle distraction and every so often Jim looked up from his book to be sure the status hadn't changed. That’s how he saw the Stilinski kid and Claudia take a walk toward the cells. That was an oddity. Jim tilted his head and watched as the pair crossed the yard away from the protection of the Hale’s treegrove. Stiles going inside wasn't unusual, but Claudia was another story; she never went in the building aside from mealtimes. And lunch was only an hour earlier.

Not far behind Stiles and his mother came the Hales and Jim knew something was wrong. He could clearly see the grief on Talia’s face and the anger on Derek’s. It was a stark contrast to the blank look on Stiles’ and Claudia’s faces. It was a zone out, had to be, but why the hell was Stiles following Claudia if he was out of it?

Jim could see Derek and Talia talking as they followed. He let his vision guide his hearing and blatantly snooped on their conversation.

“You aren't understanding me, Derek. When I say she doesn't do this, I mean she doesn't have the sensory ability, she doesn't mentally check-out-”

“She does when she's poisoned,” said Derek. “Stiles told me about the times his mom mentally checked out when he was a kid-”

“There's no way they could poison her...”

That was enough and Jim decided to get involved. He was no expert on Claudia’s brand of weird, had only seen her in action twice before in the year that he had been in the Sanctuary. But he did know a thing or two about Stiles’ issues, and he could tell before the others could if there were signs of poison to be careful of. Jim got to his feet, shoved the beat up old book in his jacket pocket. He decided to stock up on some karma and tossed the basketball to one of the lurking kids by the basketball court. By the time they were adding to the racket, he had wound his way through the groups of misfits and followed the Hales into the cafeteria. It was mostly empty, everyone outside for the sunshine while it lasted, so he kept track of his query easily enough.

Jim followed the group down to the burned out wing that sat butted up against the wall of Ward Six. It was a few levels below the ward, sure, but it was closer than Jim preferred to get.

“Why is that kid still so damn obsessed with that place?” Jim complained, keeping his voice quiet. Talia turned to look at him but Derek was tracking Stiles in the dark.

“What place?” Talia asked. Knowing she could see him about half as well as he could see her, Jim pointed toward the wall.

“You can't hear that place?” he asked. Talia arched an elegant eyebrow, a warning before a cutting remark. Jim shook his head. “All the machines and gizmos. It’s like a pinball machine, without any of the fun.”

“Ward Six,” Derek clarified before his mom amped up on her frustrations.

“What the hell is going on up there?” Talia wanted to know then. Jim looked to Derek, surprised.

“Are you kidding?” he asked. “You seriously didn't tell her?”

“We told you, we don't know anything _to_ tell her,” Derek returned. “I’m not going to scare everybody for something we don't even know what it is.”

“That’s not your call here, chief. She and everybody else needs to know, because what if what he said _is_ true? What if it breaks out? What if _that's_ why these two are staring at a wall?” Jim shook his head, surprised the kid could be so dense. Talia watched the back and forth, arms crossed and impatient.

“Somebody better start talking,” she said in fair warning. Jim still watched Derek.

“Not me. You gonna tell her?” he asked. He nodded toward Stiles. “If you talk long enough, maybe you can get him back.”

Derek thought it over and Jim got annoyed. He held up his hands and walked away from them, going over to where Claudia and Stiles stood to get a better look at them. Claudia was small and frail looking, practically glowing white in the charred-out darkness of the sub-level cells because she spent most of her time in the tree grove. Dark hair and pale skin, mother and son were like ghosts compared to the Hales a few feet behind them. And both sets of wide brown eyes stared at the wall off above Jim’s head where it met the ceiling, like he wasn't there at all.

Jim pulled a lighter out of his pocket, something he had stolen off a lab tech months ago and mostly only used for scaring off monsters. He braced himself and dialed back on his vision a little, enough to not blind himself when he flicked the trigger and held the flame up, guarded behind his hand so he didn't blind Stiles, either.

Derek and Talia stopped their silent arguing, Derek rushing to his boyfriend’s defense until Jim waved him off.

“His eyes!” Derek growled at him. Jim scoffed at that, almost amused.

“You think I don't know what I’m doing here?” he asked. That was some forced perspective on its own, considering Jim had spent a month training both Stiles and Derek in how to deal with heightened senses. Derek backed down and Jim was able to focus on Stiles and his mom rather than worry about pissed off werewolves. He waved his hand between Stiles and the flickering lighter, checking for physiological reactions. The pupils seized up to a tiny black dot in the amber brown with lightning speed. He was physically responsive, but he wasn't actually seeing anything. There was no other reaction whatsoever. Stiles’ expression was concerned, pinched at the corners of his lips and eyes. There was no sign of discoloration in his skin, no sneaking blue-green veins around his mouth or eyes like could sometimes indicate poison or related asphyxiation. Wherever Stiles was, he was far away, but he was in his own head.

When Jim ran the same visual checks against Claudia, her pupils were slower to react, like a normal person’s would be. There were no signs of distress from her, either.

“It’s not a zone,” came the inevitable conclusion. “Whatever it is, it's got Claudia, too. But I don't think it's poison. I don't see anything, I can't smell anything-”

“How could you down here,” muttered Talia.

“Look, what I’m saying is, I’m a fan of brute force at this point, alright?” Jim said. “Stiles’ senses are responding to everything, faster than hers. He’s still online, the zone out didn't shut him down. So we can remove him from this, whatever it is, and get them further from it. Just pick them up, carry them out. Maybe out of range-”

Talia didn't like it. “They were underground. They should have been fine.”

Nodding his understanding, Derek said, “Then maybe whatever it is, it’s using nature against them.”

“And this isn't what he did before?” Talia seemed confused, like the suggestion that nature would let them down was a foreign and impossible concept to understand. “The nogitsune. Is this what he did then?”

Jim watched Derek close then, not trusting the young man’s judgement on matters regarding protecting Stiles at the moment. Derek’s heart rate ticked up but it wasn't a lie. More like panic or anger.

“I wasn't there then. I don't know how it started. I don't think it was like this,” he said. It was more than Jim or Talia had to go on for the moment. Decision made, Jim reached over and caught Derek by the arm, pushed him toward Stiles.

“You _are_ here now. Get him away from the ward.”

 

****


	9. Chapter 9

The drive to Washington hadn't seemed to take as long as it should have. Allison had her dad and her best friend and a lot of catching up to do. She had only been gone a few months, but she had missed a lot. There was a lot to share from her life, too, but it was nothing so interesting. Allison had been on her own for the first time in life, had two whole months of practice being an adult without school. She had a fake ID and zero credit score, so things had been a little tight, but that was nothing compared to cleaning up the hell left behind from the nogitsune and the onni. She had definitely gotten the better deal and felt a little bad for it.

“Thank you for telling me what was going on,” Allison told the both of them somewhere on the drive. “For letting me help try to fix some of it. It wasn't Stiles’ fault. I don't want to let him get locked up for something because of me.”

Her dad rolled his eyes at her as he drove. “It's not-”

“It is, and I’m fine. Maybe I’m even better off because of it,” Allison argued.

“Better off would have been finishing school,” said her dad.

“Sure, I guess. Because demons and monsters really only respect a high school diploma, right?”

Chris ignored the sarcasm. “Your mom wanted you to go to school.”

“Where is my mom?” Allison asked the question carefully neutral. She wasn't trying to rile her dad, especially since he was driving, but he had just accidentally poked at a curiosity that had been bugging her for a few days. “We buried an empty casket. That's why it was sealed before the funeral. So where is she?”

There was a tiny squeak from Lydia in the backseat but her friend didn't zip into fairy dust and run away or anything, she would survive the dangerous question Allison had just asked. Chris stayed silent, eyes on the road, white knuckles clenched around the steering wheel. Allison decided to wait him out.

“I don't really want to talk about it,” he finally said.

“That's okay. I didn't really know what I wanted to do with school, either,” said Allison. There was a cheer to her voice to leave the topic open for discussion whenever he wanted to go back to it, but there was no way her dad could have missed the sass; Allison was still her mother’s child and she sometimes wanted credit for the bitchy side she was growing into.

Amongst the other news from Beacon Hills, Allison learned that Scott and Kira had broken up again, and this time it would stick. Scott and Malia were giving things a try, because Malia wasn't one for long distance relationships and nobody knew if Stiles would ever make it home. Considering Derek had turned himself in at Werewolf Guantanamo for Stiles, there was zero-to-the-negatives percent chance that Stiles and Derek were not exclusive. Or however it worked in prison for werewolves, anyway.

All of it meant that Scott and Allison were both still seeing other people. After a lot of consideration over the past three months, Allison realized the pull she felt toward Scott as she had been dying had less to do with love than it had their shared experience with the nemeton. It was why she was there on an apparently impossible mission to save Stiles. She had been on the other side of the country and had known something was wrong, had called her dad three days in a row to ask about her friends until he cracked and told her the truth. She had lived through a very weird year that had tried to kill her too many times, and it had somehow anchored her to her two friends in Beacon Hills.

She couldn't find words to explain it to anybody and she didn't know who to ask about merging energies with trees. But she knew the three of them had asked the tree for help and she knew the tree had saved her life after the nogitsune used the same power to kill her. Who knew what made werewolves and the supernatural actually work, but somehow, Allison knew, it was tied tightly to the tree. Some energy she shared with them and with the tree. It was important but she didn't know what it was yet. It would have to wait until they got Stiles back.

They had left town before the sheriff had actually approved of the project. The hurry was partly because they were confident he would allow them to try, but mostly because the entire scheme was illegal at every level, so his authorization was not actually needed for anything. It was a courtesy and a warning, they weren't asking permission.

That was why they had gotten the sheriff’s phone call the night before, as they were checking into their hotel in Cascade, Washington. And why, the next morning, early enough to miss the worst of the busy city’s rush hour traffic, they were parked outside the messy little home of a retired civil servant who knew somebody in common with Allison’s dad.

Nobody was in a hurry to go knock on the door of a Nationalist extremist-sympathizer. Allison had a staggering headache and hid behind her sunglasses, reminding herself to be patient. She was just there to help her friends, and none of them knew of any timelines in play. It was Lydia’s idea in the first place and she clung to the car door, stared out the window, her jaw set and determined but her eyes worried. Allison’s dad couldn't seem to talk himself into taking the keys out of the ignition.

“Just for the record?” he said, speaking to Allison in the passenger seat and Lydia in the backseat equally. “There is no possible way this is going to work. We just go knock on the man’s door, and say we have information for the terrorist organization that he at one time ten years ago was maybe allegedly involved with, and would he maybe still know anyone... that just reeks of a set up and he's gonna chase us off with a _rifle_...”

Allison looked back at Lydia. Her friend seemed somehow more stubborn than usual. But she still hadn't moved. Allison looked back to her dad. “Well, the bright side is, he can wave the gun all he wants but she’ll know if we’re in trouble before he does.”

As Allison started unbuckling her seatbelt, her dad balked. “Was that supposed to make me feel better? Because it didn't...”

His complaint was ignored and partly unheard as Lydia marched away from the car, the door slamming behind her. Cringing as the loud noise reverberated around her skull, Allison hurried to catch up.

The house was old but not exactly neglected, like the people who lived in it spent most of their time somewhere other than in the yard or on the porch. The grass was too long and pockmarked with weeds and the porch was cluttered with broken lawn furniture and leaves that had never been swept. An old wood painted sign beside the front door used to have the American flag on it but that had faded. It had also been hung upside down. Lydia reached over to it like she wanted to turn it rightside up but the door opening startled her back a step.

“Hi!” she said, just barely not a squeak as she tried to recover from the surprise. “We’re looking for Jake... Is he here?”

The man who stood on the other side of the porch screen was a few years older than Allison’s dad but he was definitely bigger. He wore a red trucker’s cap and a t-shirt with a Nascar racer zooming between a checkered flag and a confederate flag. Tattoos down his arms said very plainly “In God I Trust,” and “America first.” He wasn't subtle about his love of country. Allison was pretty sure they had found the right person.

“I’m Jake. How can I help you ladies?” He sounded friendly enough, surprised to see a couple of high schoolers on his porch probably. Allison looked back to see her dad approaching the house a little more cautiously without being overtly rude. Lydia relied on her charm.

“We were told to find you because we have some information and maybe you know who can help...” said Lydia. She wasn't quite twirling her hair like she would with anyone even twenty years older than her, but she was still putting on a show. Allison smiled a little to back it up.

“My cousin Troy Argent said you could help,” she offered. The man looked her over, then her dad as he moved up beside her.

“I know Troy,” Jake confirmed, confused as much as suspicious. Chris stepped forward to offer a hand in greeting.

“Chris Argent. My daughter Allison, and Lydia,” he introduced quickly. “We’ve come into some information regarding the location of a man named Kincaid. Troy said you might know people who were interested.”

Jake was interested. His eyes went wide and he stopped slouching. But he also tugged his front door a little closer, like he was preparing to lock them out and run for the hills.

“Kincaid...” Jake looked around. “I don't know anybody-”

“Well, do you know anybody who might?” Lydia interrupted. “Because we’re pretty sure there's people who want to know where he is. He just disappeared off the face of the planet and we finally found the forwarding address.”

Jake squinted at her. “What the heck do you know about him? You weren't hardly born when he _fell off the planet_.”

Lydia arched an eyebrow. “ _Excuse me?_ Garrett Kincaid was last seen in public four years ago after his third successful jailbreak in ten years. He was arrested by Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg of the Cascade PD and sent back to prison at Snake River but he was never acknowledged on the prison records there. No further manhunt was publicized which _means_ he was moved to a _black site_. And I am telling you, I know where that black site is. And _you’re_ going to tell me I’m not old enough to know who the father of the Sunrise Patriots is?”

Their target was sufficiently impressed but Allison set a hand to her arm in a hint to calm down; Lydia had been talking fast and her voice had gotten a bit high pitched in her effort at zealousness. Jake looked between the girls and Chris again, then around at his porch. Then back to the girls.

“How exactly do you know about this place?” he asked. Lydia immediately jabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward Allison.

“Her ex-boyfriend’s dad is a shitty federal agent and he’s not the brightest crayon in the box,” she reported. Behind her sunglasses, Allison rolled her eyes as she was thrown under the bus for it. That was why her father was with them. And why the both of them were armed. She nodded to confirm the explanation.

Jake hesitated as he thought it over. “Look. I’m retired now. I've got my pension to consider. I've gotta live off the disability checks. So I don't know many folks anymore.”

It sounded less than genuine. Allison tried to look disappointed. Lydia was pouting about it, in that way that could make anyone who saw it feel guilty for existing if it displeased her.

“I mean, I’ll try to find out what I can. Okay? Leave me a phone number and I’ll call you if I find someone who wants to talk to you,” said Jake. Allison looked over at her dad as Lydia magically produced pen and paper from her purse to write down a phone number. It was a burner phone they had picked up at WalMart the night before and wouldn't trace back to them at all. Just for phone calls to the Sunrise Patriots. They had to take risks but they could still be smart about it.

And just like that, they were on the radar of one of the country’s leading terrorist organizations as a potential ally. Somehow that was more bizarre to Allison than dealing with werewolves would ever be.

 

*****


	10. Chapter 10

There was a file on Thackeray the Tbird. An actual paper-and-pen, manila folder with silver clips at the top and everything. Blair had taken it home overnight because he was hoping for light reading, maybe some anecdotal evidence that at least the thunderbird hadn't been tortured. Instead he found out that the bird was nearly a hundred years old, at best guess, and he generally didn't like people. Supposedly the original reports said the bird could talk, that he could fly, and that he was a fragile pain in the ass. Just, basically, a really big bird. The “thunder” part of his title was unexplained and merely assumed because of his size, bigger than a harpy eagle or any other known species, and his seemingly immortal age.

There was nowhere in the file any indication that Tbird was destructive. There should have been. Blair walked into his office - which he had very carefully cleaned the night before - to find a war zone. Books had been taken from their shelves. The glass-shaded auditor’s lamp he used for communicating with Jim out in the yard had been broken straight down the middle like someone had taken a mallet to it, the frosted glass charred like it had sat in a fire pit. The big window out to the yard had scratches and what looked alarmingly like cracks. Tiny burn marks, like someone had dropped a cigarette on the carpet, littered the floor in front of the window.

In the middle of the messed up room sat a big, fluffed up, and irritable bird. He glowered at Blair from just below eye-level. If he had possessed arms, they would have been crossed. The feathers that made up the crown around his head stood back, flat and spread.

“Oh boy,” Blair breathed as he took in the damage. Tbird held his beak lowered to squint at Blair, so he clacked out chittering noises into his fluffed up chest feathers in response.

“Okay, so, you’re a little angry you can't go outside,” Blair offered up, closing the office door behind him carefully. “I get that, man. I so totally hear you. But this... I just gotta clean this up. I can't leave either, you know? It's you, and me, and everybody out there. We're all stuck.”

There was no way to know if the bird understood Blair’s efforts at placating. The important part was that he didn't attack. He seemed to be pouting. Blair wasn't kidding when he said he understood the sentiment; but cleaning up after a pissed off mythical beast wasn't actually something Blair had expected to deal with. He gave Tbird as much room as possible as he moved to find a safe place to put his backpack and start cleaning up the space.

“Man, Miranda’s gonna kill us for this mess,” he grumbled. Still, he started cleaning up what he could. He would deal with the complicated stuff later, when he absolutely couldn't avoid it anymore.

As if he had conjured her up from the ether, there was a knock on the office door and then the warden walked herself in his office. She startled at seeing Tbird holding court in the middle of the room, and then paused when she saw the destruction the angry bird had wrought.

“What in hell...”

“I think this is how Tbird chose to lodge a formal complaint at not being allowed outside,” said Blair. “Maybe you should build him an aviary...”

“ _Chicken wire_ won't keep him from wandering, Blair,” chided the distracted Warden. She took particular interest in the charred remains of Blair’s desk lamp and reconsidered the sulking bird. “But I leave him to you to sort out. Give me something reasonable and I’ll see what I can do.”

That was a bit of a surprise and Blair stopped multitasking. Since when did Miranda actually listen to him, on anything, without a fight? That's when Blair saw the file in her hand. It looked a lot like the one he had for Thackeray. Somebody’s old case file. It wasn't very thick, like Tbird’s, so maybe there was a chance they had someone else within the walls of the Sanctuary who hadn't been used for butcher practice yet.

“What's that?” Blair asked, pointing toward the folder. Miranda held the file close.

“You offered to work another case we can't crack,” she said. “I have one that is currently... presently... vexing us. I figured I should check with you before I try Falwell.”

“Don't try Falwell,” Blair said quickly. He didn't know what she wanted him to solve, but no one should ever be sent to Falwell. “What have you got?”

Miranda considered his eager offer. “Well... what do you know about the Tuath De?”

Blair stared at her, jaw hanging open like a guppy as he tried to process the sheer significance of what he had just heard. The warden of a prison designed to contain the supernatural and the fantastical had just asked him for verification that the ancient Celtic gods were real. A few feet away, a thunderbird hissed and clicked like a pissed off cat.

There was no easy way to understand his life anymore, Blair realized. Not if someone was concerned with sounding sane.

“Uh... you mean Tuatha De Danann? Like the predecessors to the aes sidhe and the culmination of all fairy lore for the ancient Celts? I mean, it’s not exactly super my area. I figured out kind of early that I got enough rain here in Cascade and wanted to look into the warmer climates, for one thing... but that was after I did a two-year study-abroad program right out of high school. I mean, I learned enough Welsh to piss people off for trying, which is totally not at all the right language for the Tuath De, but I participated in a couple of digs in Ireland... The history and the stories they managed to document- and it’s still a very verbal tradition-”

Miranda crossed her arms, protecting the file folder from his babbling. “Blair. You’re not answering my question.”

Snapped back to the present-tense, Blair straightened up. “Well, I, uh, wrote an undergrad thesis on the science behind the various fae theories and the universality between varying cultures across the globe...”

Apparently satisfied, Miranda tossed him the case file. He caught it and started reading, a kid on Christmas with a giant paper-wrapped box in front of him. Miranda didn't let him get very far.

“We have a changeling.”

The file almost slipped out of Blair’s hands and he nearly gave himself whiplash looking back up at her.

“Changelings don’t exist. They’re just the way superstitious clans explained sudden infant death syndrome and, like, early forms of behavioural issues on par with ADHD...”

Miranda shook her head at him for being obtuse. “Changelings do exist. And we have one. And he has started growing a husk. But we can’t wake him up. And we’ve invested too much into keeping him alive to lose him now.”

“So, wait, what is this? Like, you think if I have the magic touch with Tbird, I can just revive a changeling? That’s a stretch. I should probably at least meet this guy before-”

Miranda shrugged to dismiss his hesitation. “You saw him the other day.”

_Holy. Shit._ The thing with Derek’s face was a changeling. Blair started reading the thin file again. There were sheets that contained what were basically updates over the years, amounting to nothing more than tracking the changes that occurred, through photos and notes. The thing had started out a small speck of light in a glass box, like an aquarium, with what looked like water along the bottom and a potted fern for company. The next few photos showed bigger boxes to contain slightly bigger beings that sometimes looked like two-legged, two armed sprites, and other times like an octopus in a ball of light. They had only light and not enough tangible explanation for the light to do much testing.

The progress of over thirty years time slowly accumulated human shape and a larger presence that was eventually wrapped in technology to keep the body alive because it did not seem inclined to otherwise sustain itself under its own power. If it had come from anywhere other than the Sanctuary, Blair would have dismissed the file as bad photoshops.

Instead, the story the file told was disturbing. The notes documented every change in the thing’s environment and every reaction. It told how they had early on dropped bits of organic material into the water at the bottom of the tank, from hair and skin to nails and tiny bits of processed animal waste. Fish bones and bovine fat. Dirt and blood and saliva in the mix for the sake of experimentation. Even plastic and non-organic materials, just to try. There had been no noticeable difference from the various properties, the changeling always assumed its own independent shape despite the influences they put in its space.

It stood out to Blair that fae, according to the lore he had read, did not like blood or unclean things. And the Sanctuary had been inundating something they thought to be a changeling with nothing but the uncleanest of unclean from the very start.

And somehow, the other glaring neon sign that suddenly yelled at Blair from the pages of the file, was that the thing that had taken Derek’s face hadn't been given anything of Derek’s. At least, not by Miranda’s so-called doctors at the Sanctuary. Unlike the changeling, Derek had been under Falwell’s care, like Jim had been, and Falwell made no note of sharing his findings or the organic samples he had stolen from Derek. The changeling had assumed the appearance on its own, through no obvious apparent assistance other than proximity, from when Derek had been kept in the Ward weeks earlier.

Blair’s mind was ticking from idea to thought to moral and ethical dilemma, one realization after another, and he struggled to keep up with himself as Miranda waited for some outward sign of intelligence.

“Oh my god. Okay. Uh. Well...” Blair was essentially stalling as he tried to sort out which was the most important issue needing addressed when there were so many to start with. “I mean. I guess. First off. You’ve got this guy in a tube. I mean, changelings are fae. They _are_ nature. The lab is about as far from nature as you can get. That’s why he won’t wake up. And that’s to say nothing of everything else you’ve already tortured him with. Do you have any _fucking clue_ how lucky we are Stiles has never been anywhere near this guy? _Oh my god_ , we could all be dead right now...”

Miranda was not following at all and she was thus far unimpressed. It took Blair a moment to remember that the Sanctuary didn’t know about Stiles’ spark.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Miranda asked. Blair tried to jump tracks. Keep it on task. The changeling. Keep it on the changeling. He could do this.

“I’m talking about the changeling. He’s not waking up because he’s surrounded by everything that is poison to the fae. Changelings are supposedly fae, they’re related to fairies and elves in the old lore, and you asked about the Tuath de, so you’re suggesting this is one seriously old creature... you’ve got something from the Old World and literally cocooned him in what is essentially poison. You’ve been poisoning him for, what, thirty years? He should be dead.”

Something actually seemed to get through to Miranda. Actual, genuine emotion showed on the woman’s face, and Blair had never actually seen that before. She was surprised. Concerned, even. Over a _changeling_. Blair maybe wanted to strangle her but he contained it. He tossed the file to his desk and threw his hands in the air, at a complete loss as to how the Sanctuary had survived as long as it had without such a basic grasp of what they were working with.

“Oh my god, Miranda,” he complained. “I’ve had the case _five minutes_. Come on.”

The woman recovered, her presence ruffled not unlike Tbird’s feathers when he was pissed off. “Fine, Blair. Shut up and follow me.”

 

*****

 

The usual way of contacting Blair didn’t seem to be working. They had thrown enough dirt-wads at the window over night that he should have seen the mess and gotten the message first thing that morning. Instead, nothing. Derek was more than a little pissed off, if he was honest, but he was also worried.

“He _was_ there,” Jim confirmed for him. “But Miranda showed up and they left again. I couldn’t tell what was going on, just that they were both pissed.”

“ _You_ couldn’t hear an argument?” Talia asked, surprised. Jim shook his head, waved a hand around at the walls around them.

“Whatever keeps you from climbing the walls and jumping out does a number on my hearing. I can see through the glass when there’s light behind it, but I can’t narrow it down to hear what goes on inside,” said Jim.

They stood in the hall just outside of Derek and Stiles’ cell. Stiles was in on his bunk. One cellblock over, Derek knew, Victoria stood guard over Jim’s cell, where they had tucked Claudia away to help her get real sleep. She had come out of the zone once she was inside the line of the mountain ash there, so she and Talia had decided that she wouldn’t be leaving Jim’s space until they had more answers. She had spent the night there and not gone wandering. Stiles, however, was another story.

Strangely, Jim had been able to carry Stiles inside the cell with the line in tact, just as he had with Claudia, but it had absolutely no effect on Stiles. Whatever had kept Stiles from crossing the mountain ash barrier when they had first arrived was no longer a problem, but at the same time, whatever kept him trapped in his own mind was not letting go. They had tried keeping him in the cell over night, just to keep a watch on him, but Stiles never snapped out of the zone. He started wandering toward the burned out cellblock multiple times and each time had to be picked up and bodily forced back to safer territory. Derek listened to his every sound, watched his face for some kind of reactive proof of life, was so tuned into Stiles’ scent that he wanted very badly to go drown him in a bathtub with lavender or something. There had been no change.

Derek could hear Stiles’ mother’s conversations faintly echoing in the cellblock not far away, her voice just enough like Stiles’ that it kept him hyperfocused and alert. He didn’t have Stiles’ apparent ability to hear a pin drop outside on the basketball court, and listening for Stiles as well as trying to understand Claudia’s voice was just more than Derek’s senses, comparatively advanced though they were, could handle. It was draining. He had to stop. He had to take a step back or he was going to go crazy, and he couldn’t go crazy when he was apparently the only way Stiles knew how to make his senses balance out.

Derek didn’t trust the Sanctuary and he didn’t completely trust technology, but there was a phone in Stiles’ pocket that he knew they needed. It was a risk, it could cost them the phone or it could, at worst, cost them Blair Sandburg, but they didn’t have the answers and they needed help. Blair was the only person he knew of who might have an idea of what else to try, and if he wasn’t reachable the usual way, they had to risk the phone. Derek stepped away from the cell gate a little and waved Jim’s attention to the line on the floor.

“Let me in,” he said, not thinking. Manners kicked in at a glare from his mother and Derek added quickly, “Please. I need to get something.”

Jim shrugged it off, hadn’t seemed to take offense at all, and edged the ash out of the way enough to break the line. Once inside, Derek crouched in front of the bunk, took a quick run of Stiles’ vital signs from up close instead of five feet away behind a metal barred gate. Stiles didn’t seem to notice him. He stared blankly up at the underside of the bunk three feet over his head. Derek reached into Stiles’ pocket then in search of the phone and still got no response from the close contact. It wasn’t fair; they had been living out of each other’s pockets for a month, with Stiles acting attention-starved whenever Derek touched him, and if he were present, he would be crowing. Somewhere inside Stiles’ brain just then, he was probably having some kind of celebration because Derek was making the first move for once, and Derek very badly wanted to argue with Stiles just then that fetching the phone was not making a move. But Stiles didn’t snap out of it. There was no accosting in the bunk over possession of the cell phone.

Derek stood up and started checking the flip-phone’s contact list, hoping for Blair’s number. The list was nothing but initials, no names, and Derek took a gamble on one marked ‘BS’ feeling pretty confident.

“Hey, man, not a great time-” came Blair’s tinny-sounding voice a moment later. Outside the cell, Jim perked up and looked in at Derek and the phone call. Derek scowled down at the floor.

“Probably not. But Stiles has been zoned out for almost a day. So there probably isn’t a great time,” he said. Blair swore on the other end of the connection. Wherever he was, there were other people there, other noises cluttering up the background.

“Okay... uh... I’ll see what I can do. As soon as possible, I promise,” said Blair. Derek accepted that at face value and left it alone. He hung up the phone before the Sanctuary could figure out there was a signal coming from inside the cellblock. Then, figuring it was safer with the one among them who wasn’t as frequently dragged into fights with werewolves who worked for the Sanctuary, Derek handed the phone across to Jim.

“Can you keep track of that for him?” he asked. Jim nodded. He seemed to consider the phone a moment before he put it in a pants pocket, like he was thinking about making a call and talked himself out of it.

“What’d Blair say?” Jim asked. Derek glanced at him, surprised by the question, then saw Talia lurking guiltily off Jim’s shoulder, curious but not asking. He was asking for her benefit, not his own, considering he had heard as plainly as Derek had. He shook his head.

“He’s busy. I thought I heard the warden talking in the background. He said he’ll see what he can do, as soon as possible,” Derek reported. “So we wait.”

Talia nodded. “Either we wait on Blair or on Stiles. One of the two will show up before the other.”

Jim nodded his agreement. Then he looked to Talia. Talia still lurked, trying to stay involved but keep distance between her and Jim. The two had been - in Stiles’ words - increasing levels of _weird_ the past few weeks and Derek wasn’t sure what to make of it. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to deal with it. It was hard enough adjusting to his mother still being alive after so long knowing her to be dead. Whatever relationship drama she had going on with an ex-Army-Ranger she had known from before he was born had nothing to do with him, and Derek didn’t want to know.

“You two should have a conversation. If anything will break Stiles out of his own head, it’s this one talking,” Jim said to Talia, thumb waved briefly at Derek. And that was all there was to the announcement. Jim didn’t wait to see what anyone else felt about it. He just turned and headed out of the block. “I’ll go check on Claudia and wait for Blair.”

Derek blinked, confused by the anger Jim had kicked up in his mom at the suggestion. Suddenly their drama had _become_ his problem and Derek didn’t know what to do about it.

“What the hell-”

“He’s being an ass,” Talia replied. “Ellison is good at that.”

“That’s nice,” muttered Derek, still confused. “But he’s not my problem right now, so can someone either loop me in to the inside joke or keep it on the sidelines?”

For some reason his mom couldn’t look at him then. “He’s not going to leave it alone.”

With the way his mom had been acting, Derek couldn't help but wonder if there was a reason Jim was being a supposed ass. He had helped Stiles and Derek since day one, even when the pack disagreed with them. The thought that Jim was looking out for them again wouldn't leave him alone. “Is there something I need to know?”

Talia frowned and took a breath. She was closed off and looking for any distraction she could find, but there wasn't much to be found in a half-empty cellblock. She kicked at the cement, agitated. She looked up at Derek then.

“Probably,” she said. “But it doesn't have to be now. Let’s just... get Stiles and Cloudy sorted out. Then we'll talk.”

Kicking the problem further down the road to deal with later was something the Hale family was excellent at.

 

*****


	11. Chapter 11

Next up on the to-do list for Lydia’s jail-break squad that morning was to get an actual idea of the Sanctuary’s size and landscape beyond just the pictures and dimensions they had pulled up online. It was in a rural area, out on the edge of one of Washington’s National Parks, and two hours from anywhere. There were little towns along the two-lane highway out to the forests, roads that were more dirt than paved, but those places didn't promise a lot in resources for more than maybe gas and a daylight diner or two. People lived out there for the isolation of the woods, for the timber yards, for the Sanctuary, or for the supporting of those tiny communities. Any strangers would stand out as odd or maybe even unwelcome and stopping to ask for directions would be unsafe attention.

Allison and Lydia were dressed like hikers, their out of state ID cards in small wallets in their pockets, and basic hiking gear in their backpacks. Allison’s dad had a backpack, too, but his had the additional necessity of weapons. They looked like adventure tourists, out to enjoy the early spring fog and hang-around winter cold. Thankfully it wasn't cold or high enough altitude to snow. Just spots of drenching rain between bursts of sun.

They left the car a mile past the unmarked facility that looked like what they had expected the Sanctuary to look like. First drive-by impressions were that the place looked like a tech company or something. The security was on the building itself. There were no fences around the perimeter to declare the place a prison. It was _huge_. The high walls were all black and silver glass to reflect the trees and help it hide. The rooftops were angled to the outer edge of the long octagonal building, sending rain and snow off the front walls. It would also prevent any rooftop approach with the steep, openly visible top; Allison was no strategist, but she knew she would not want to stand on the sharp angle of that glass-like roof and try to draw her bow with any speed. There was no concealment, no cover, just a wet slide down to an eight-story high dead drop.

There were only three main exterior doors out of the facility, and one of them was actually the entrance to the parking structure. There was a small lot out front for guest parking, but the schematics had shown a completely enclosed parking structure at the back of the building for employees. It had limited access via the upper levels, so employees had to park, take an elevator to the eighth floor, and then enter through the security promenade there. From what Stiles’ friend Sandburg had told Lydia and Danny, every exit required computer authorization and human verification, otherwise they got gassed and-or shot. The building was carefully layered, like a maze, and completely self-contained to handle the firepower they would have to unload on any man or beast who tried to rush the safeguards.

Standing at the edge of the forest, looking in at the building that was the Sanctuary, Allison figured they had at least a half a mile of absolutely open space around the building. It was all well maintained grass, winding running trails between rose bushes, a natural-looking pond with a willow tree and lilies around it, and the randomly placed Rowan tree scattered out between the building and any other access points, like the roads or the forest.

“The only safe way in or out is through the parking garage,” she pointed out. “Everywhere else, it would be like running through a minefield, just waiting to get shot in the back.”

Her dad nodded his agreement. “This is virtually impossible, Lydia. We don't have the resources to take this place down.”

Lydia huffed her annoyance with the assessment. “We can. That's why we deal with the Patriots.”

Four hours after their first attempted contact with the Patriots Lydia was banking on, they still hadn't heard back. No text message, no missed calls, no direct-to-voicemail messages. When they got back to Cascade, Chris took the girls to lunch. They had nothing better to do and Lydia did not feel like shopping, even if Washington fashion had been at all in her radar field. It was a little too casual and warmly dressed to translate well to California. But they had to eat, so it was an acceptable way of killing time.

Barely. Lydia probably would have argued against the logic if she hadn't been hungry.

It was shortly after noon when they returned to their hotel. It was hard to feel like they had accomplished anything that morning. They had come all the way from Beacon Hills, Northern California, to the middle of nowhere in central Washington, only to find out that the terrain was lacking in sufficient cover and concealment for a proper modern day siege and retreat. But Lydia was still determined. And Allison was convinced they had to put in the effort, they had to try, even if that meant they wasted an entire week in Washington chasing ghosts. They weren't turning back after only a day.

Their hotel wasn't anything fancy, but it wasn't a Motel Six, either. Allison was exhausted and still felt the annoying in-and-out buzz from the headaches so she was glad to be going somewhere she could close her eyes. The three of them waited in the elevator to step off on the third floor and they walked down a nice, brightly lit hallway to their non-smoking, animal-free, shared-door rooms. Lydia wasn't feeling overly chatty and she disappeared into their room as Chris was still getting his key card out of his wallet. He looked to Allison as the door closed on Lydia.

“Is she really okay?” he asked. Allison had enough time to shrug before they heard a shout from inside the room. It wasn't a scream, it wasn't a banshee blood curdling, ear-bleeding, shriek, but it was a loud exclamation of surprise and alarm that regular humans tended to make. Allison dug into the backpack her father carried and handed him a weapon before she fumbled for her room cardkey. Her dad went in first, handgun ready, but Allison couldn't see much around his pack and the door.

“Lydia!” she called out, hoping for at least proof of life. Her dad didn't move out of the doorway.

“Jake said you wanted to talk,” a stranger’s voice replied. A man was in the girls’ hotel room, which explained the shout from Lydia. And it also explained her father’s reluctance to get out of the doorway.

“Don't make me scream, Mr. Argent,” Lydia said. Allison shoved at her dad’s hiking pack in a hint to cooperate. Whoever was in the room had to be armed, otherwise Lydia wouldn't be talking about screaming and dying.

“This is what we came up here for,” Allison reminded him.

“No,” he said sharply, not yielding on that point. But he did step into the room to clear the path for Allison. “We came up here to talk business like adults but this is not how business gets conducted. At least, not where I’m from.”

When Allison got inside, she found two men waiting on either side of Lydia, her hiking pack leaned against her leg and harmless against the handguns they both carried. One man sat against the edge of the room’s desk and the other stood at the end of the bed. The guns weren't aimed at Lydia, and only one was pointed at Allison’s dad, but it was enough to make their presence known. Allison quietly closed the door behind her and started shrugging out of her pack.

“It’s how we do business up here when someone we don't know starts poking around our business unannounced and uninvited,” the stranger said to Chris. “We had to look into you. We had to check what story we had. Which wasn't much, frankly. But we did have this one.”

The second man held up the piece of paper that Lydia had written the cell phone number on for Jake. “You people wanted to see us. So start being social.”

Lydia caught sight of the paper in his hand and narrowed her eyes at it. Then she snatched it from his hand, like the man wasn't in general threatening them with a semi-automatic weapon, and squinted at the paper. The man seemed amused as Lydia crumpled up the paper and went to the desk. Whatever she found there did not amuse her. Arms crossed, a scowl on her face, she walked across the room to hand Allison the pad of notepaper from the desk.

“It's my fault. They’re right,” she announced. Her tone said she was annoyed, but it wasn't with them. Allison took the pad of paper to see what had disturbed Lydia. There, in small writing across the bottom of the small pad of paper, was the hotel logo and name, complete with the city.

“I stole the pad from the desk downstairs this morning. The one in my purse looks just like this,” she reported. Allison rolled her eyes and tossed the pad toward the TV cabinet, mystery solved. It was solved with the added bonus of Lydia no longer standing within arm's reach of the terrorists, so for as much as her friend had pulled a boneheaded rookie mistake earlier that morning, she had at least worked it to their advantage this once. Lydia let out a disgusted grumble before she turned back to the two strangers.

“So, fine then,” she said. She was much more at ease with Allison and Chris at her back rather than the two gunmen. “You’re here. I invited you. So tell me what you know about Garrett Kincaid.”

“Nope. That’s not how this works, little girl. You first,” said the first of the terrorists. Lydia arched an eyebrow at them, a dangerous grin on her face as she exchanged a look with Allison.

“We know where he is,” she told them. “We can take you to his door.”

The two strangers looked at each other as they weighed it out. Then, first one and then the other, the guns were tucked into shoulder holsters under their jackets. Only then did Chris lower his weapon.

“We were just there, in fact,” said Chris, still cautious but at least trying to show he could be peaceful. The men seemed interested.

“If this is true, I think maybe we could start up some profitable business together,” said the first one. He stood up from his lean against the desk and waved toward the door. “My boss is interested in hearing what you have to say, if you’re up for a field trip.”

It didn't sound like a smart idea, but Allison knew at this point, they were committed. She nodded her agreement even as Lydia looked back at her for confirmation. Her dad wasn't so happy about it. But Chris tucked his handgun away into the holster at his back. Their impossible mission was maybe a little closer than they had thought.

 

*****

 

The old truths would always stay the same, no matter how much the world changed as Jim got older. People were people, that was just the way it worked. And the curiouser the cat, the more likely it was to get burned. The second Jim saw his friend’s face, he knew his friend had been burned.

“What’d you find out, Chief?” he asked, tone cautious. Blair looked over at him, wide-eyed and still processing.

“Too much, man,” Blair replied. He shook his head and, rather than move away from the doors, he pulled Jim aside to talk about it then and there, in plain view of the security cameras. “I think maybe Stiles isn't zoning. I think it's this changeling in Ward Six. It's trying to get him to help. That thing Stiles did with Derek? Maybe the changeling needs him to do that again. That's why the thing took Derek’s face, that's why Stiles keeps going toward the Ward...”

Jim caught Blair by the shoulder to get him to calm down. He was talking fast, like he did when he was chasing crazy ideas that normal sane people wouldn't go near with a ten foot pole. The trouble was, with Blair, those were the ideas that usually ended up being right. But all the same... “I’m sorry, but _changelings_ now?”

Blair shrugged and nodded. “Yeah. Essentially, basically, fairy children. I mean, it gets a little murky, and this isn't my area, so I don't know all the nuances, but the fae would swap out their offspring for humans, just to get them started and cause chaos and all of that, you know the basics.”

Jim frowned at him for it. “And you’re trying to tell me somebody swapped out Derek-”

Blair startled like Jim had kicked him in the gut, lost all color. “Oh god I hope not. No, that wouldn't make any sense-”

“Hey, I’m just trying to catch up, here. You’re talking about _fairies_ of all goddamned things, Blair. And all I know is whatever it is has got the kid’s face, and Stiles won't leave it alone.”

“Fuck! Jim, what if it _did_ swap out when Derek was in the Ward? That could explain- I mean, that would be some seriously weird relationship with Stiles- god, Stiles would be so torn up-”

Jim stared at Blair until he shut up, willing him to make some kind of logical sense. “Trust me, Chief, the guy babysitting Stiles right this very second is _Derek_. Not some magical fairy voodoo.”

“How the hell would we know? I mean, you saw Derek when he came back from the Ward last month. It could have been the changeling and Stiles brought the wrong guy back. What if-”

“He's not a changeling-”

“We don't know tha-”

“Damnit, Sandburg! We do, okay? This one is the right one.” Jim didn't want to be any angrier than he already naturally was, and definitely not with Blair, but his friend was dancing all over everything Jim couldn't talk to him about. Jim was terrified he would say something he shouldn't. Blair froze up, stared at him. He hadn't changed in two years, even if Jim was certain he had. They were both older, scruffier, and lived and operated in entirely different worlds. But Blair could still read his damn mind.

“Wait. You know something,” Blair said. “What do you know, Jim? What happened? What am I missing-”

Jim looked down the long hall and saw Victoria and Claudia watching them from the gate of his cell. He caught Blair’s arm and started them walking again to go see Talia and Derek. Blair kept up and kept quiet, but he was worried about more unknowns than the changeling now, too. Jim set his jaw and took them right up to Talia.

“You now have a problem on your hands,” he told her. “Because that thing _I told you_ was gonna be a problem, and you told me wasn't _important_ , just became important.”

Talia blinked between the three men outside Stiles’ cell, surprised but also looking slightly cornered.

“Could somebody tell me-” Blair began, only to be interrupted by Derek’s “What the hell is going on?”

Jim crossed his arms and looked to Talia. He was not happy. But he was not going to get involved more than he had to be. Talia squared her shoulders and found her usual authoritative calm.

“I don't know, Blair. You were going to get us answers about why Stiles and Claudia started zoning and walking toward the general vicinity of Ward Six, so what did you find? Let's start there,” she said. Jim kept silent, tried not to break his own jaw from the effort.

Blair switched tracks easily enough. “The Sanctuary has been poisoning a changeling for nearly thirty years. They started out making it live in pieces of organic material, DNA and the like from other animals, trying to make it take some actual corporeal form. The thing finally started taking on a humanoid form about five years ago. Then in the last month it started taking on Derek’s face. But _Falwell_ wasn't involved with the changeling project, so the _changeling_ doesn't have any of Derek’s DNA mixed in with that organic compound cocktail they've been poisoning it with for so long.”

Jim was pleased to see Talia turn a shade white, accepting that as confirmation that he had been right. “He thinks _Derek_ might be the changeling. And I can promise you that he isn't. Stiles could, too, if he could talk at the moment.”

Talia looked from Blair up to Jim again and then over at a very concerned, very scowling Derek. Talia looked back to Jim then. “You’re certain?”

“Dead certain, and I told you _why_ , weeks ago,” Jim replied. It didn't make sense to Blair or Derek, and the two handled it in very different ways. Derek got pissed off while Blair tried to jump tracks to something he felt familiar with.

“Look, I’m just saying we don't know for sure what's going on, okay?” Blair said, trying to keep the peace. “But if the changeling assumed Derek’s face, it had to be for a reason, and the only thing I can guess at is Stiles. Whatever Stiles inherited from his mom, that Spark thing? I think the changeling is after that.”

“Stiles saved Derek, so the changeling is trying to dupe him into doing it again,” Jim reasoned. Blair nodded.

“Assuming the changeling is still in the Ward,” Blair said. He looked to Derek, awkward. “No offense.”

Jim squared up, annoyed that his friend seemed determined to make a werewolf rampage on an identity crisis while his anchor to reality was locked in a zone so deep he couldn't see daylight. He pointed to Derek. “I already told you, _that_ is Derek. _Stop_ , Sandburg.”

“I get that you think that, Jim, I’m just saying, we should consider our options of what we’re dealing with,” said Blair. “Honestly, if Derek is the changeling, I think it would mean better things for our odds at surviving everything because Derek at least doesn't seem to want us dead, but there’s no grantees with that thing in the tank upstairs.”

“I know Derek’s scent, Chief. And it hasn't changed since he got here,” said Jim. He figured it was a nice, safe, middle territory between truths to avoid getting himself turned into mincemeat by one of the pack. Blair finally seemed to agree to let it go but Talia and Derek exchanged a look that said it wasn't going anywhere. The young man looked close to murderous anyway, but that had been his default state most of the morning.

“What do we do to get Stiles back from this thing?” he asked, stubbornly set on his priority. Derek had exactly one dog in the fight and it was the one kid who wasn't a werewolf. Blair winced and shook his head.

“I tried to get Miranda to let me get this thing, like, out of the building and she won't. She had it unhooked from the incubator and took the body out of chemical stasis, but that's it. I’m out of my depth here, man. If the usual stuff doesn't work, my only other idea is to take Stiles up to to the thing, see if proximity has any effect-”

“No,” said Derek. “He goes nowhere near that.”

Talia nodded her agreement. “I wouldn't even let Stiles near my brother right now, Blair. He can tap into the power of the pack. Mine, and Derek’s, both. You don't give that kind of power to fae who have been tortured.”

“It's how you get fox demons that go on murder sprees wearing his face,” said Derek. Blair seemed to believe them, even though to Jim it still made no sense.

“I mean, I guess the bad news is they've been torturing this thing for thirty years by poisoning it, but the good news is that means we know poison won't work to kill it. Narrows down our options a little more,” Blair rambled out, his hands framing a perfect little invisible box in the air for all the options that remained.

Derek was having nothing of any of them. He retreated to the cell, going so far to maintain his space that he tried to put the mountain ash line back in place with the end of his shoe. It didn't really work, so Jim took care of it when Derek turned to check on Stiles.

In the weeks Jim had known Derek, the young man had been tolerant of Stiles’ intrusions in his space. He hadn't sent Stiles away like he did others who crowded too close, but Jim had never seen him seek Stiles’ attention. It stood out to him maybe because it was how he had always treated Blair, never pushing him away but not really bringing him in, either. It was how Talia was around Claudia, too. That was just how they worked, even if the relationships were all different.

Which made it stand out that Derek crawled into the bunk with Stiles when Jim locked them in the cell. He curled up around Stiles, the zoned out pack Sentinel, physical contact backed up by scent, and reinforced further as Derek started talking. He was whisper quiet, not wanting heard, and Jim did his best to turn down the volume controls. He angled to put his back to the cell gate and crossed his arms, standing watch to keep Derek’s mom or Blair from interrupting them.

“His instincts are good,” Blair observed with a nod toward the cell. Talia frowned at him, not following his change in subjects from rambling about Sanctuary experiments to talking about instinct. “Derek. With Stiles and the Sentinel thing. Had he not tried that yet? I mean, if the mountain ash can't block whatever this thing is out of the kid’s head, his senses are the next best bet. Overload his senses, maybe he can trigger a zone - like a real one, I mean - and kinda reboot the system. Get the hitchhiker the hell out. It's a good idea.”

Talia looked in at Derek’s back through the gate. She very carefully didn't look at Jim even though he stood in the way. She could hear Derek's words to Stiles as easily as Jim could, even with Blair’s anxious rambling. Usually, Jim liked Talia. Back when she went by Sam, she had sass and humor and put down any problem that came her way. But the good judgement and smarts that had made her great as a tech in the crime lab had let them all down the last few weeks. Jim wasn't one to say _I told you so_ for most things, but this one, he had seen coming. And he still couldn't say anything about it anyway, because Talia wasn't owning up to a damn thing.

****


	12. Chapter 12

“Stiles. I know you’re in there. I need you. Come back.”

The words were less than a whisper. Derek hardly heard them over the sound of the prison around them, of the people talking a few feet away, of the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. Stiles’ was an echo behind it and a steady thrum under his wrist as Derek wrapped both arms around his chest. Derek tried to curl up under Stiles’ weight, because he wanted to hide, but he also wanted to make Stiles feel his presence. He had carried him back each time Stiles had gone walking without the slightest change, but that was different. Maybe, somehow, more complete contact would make it through. Public displays of intimacy weren't exactly Derek’s thing, but his pride could take the hit. It was already a pretty low priority lately.

There was a new level of fear creeping in for Derek. The anger had gotten him so far, but the report from Blair was a double edged sword just waiting to make a second pass through. There was no magic bullet that could fix it, Blair had bad news when Derek had been looking for answers, and Stiles was still locked up inside his own head. From everything Derek could see in front of them, things were as bad as they could get. He couldn't possibly make them any worse by following instinct. Instinct said to protect, to keep warm, to keep close, and that was what he would do. So he pulled Stiles up against him, their legs stretched out beside each other, Stiles’ back to his chest. Derek leaned his shoulder into the wall and curled around Stiles as tight a fit as he could, his forearms bare and tucked under Stiles’ shirt, his chin tucked against Stiles’, skin on skin as much as was reasonable. Something had to get through to Stiles.

“You need to hear me, Stiles. Come back, alright? Come back so we can leave. Where you go, I go. From now on. Got it? I can't get in your head-”

And that's when it hit him.

He could get in Stiles’ head. Wherever Stiles went, he could follow him. Derek had spent so long worrying about the Sentinel with the spark that he had forgotten what he could do to help, as a Hale and a shapeshifter graced as they were with their own brand of supernatural. Annoyed at himself but still somehow hopeful, he started rearranging how they sprawled on the pitiful cot. Stiles wasn't exactly small, he was gangly dead weight at the moment, tangled in everything. Without too big of a scene, and completely uncaring if anybody disapproved, Derek pulled Stiles to his chest so they were stomach to stomach. Face to face, Derek tried again to will Stiles to awareness.

“Come on... last chance before I cheat,” he warned. Stiles didn't twitch. Derek tucked his cheek up beside Stiles, holding him careful and close. He closed his eyes and took a breath, centering, focusing, brushing his fingers lightly over the nape of his neck.

Then, mumbling an apology, he flexed his claws and dug them into the exposed skin at the base of Stiles’ skull.

There was a jolt and a rush of noise, chaos sounds that echoed and hurt Derek’s senses. He could hardly pick out individual sounds in the mess because everything jumbled together. A heartbeat became the beating of a bird’s wings, someone sliding their foot across the blacktop outside became the slamming of a metal door, and quiet conversation was suddenly a shouting match. At the same time, his awareness of other sensory input went off the charts. Everything he saw was white, so brilliant it hurt and nothing would come into focus. He could taste Stiles, he could taste the air between them, everything. And holding Stiles was an addicting level of hell, with every inch of his body aware of the weight and pressure and feel of the skin against his, Stiles’ baggy overshirt twisted and riding up between them. Was this what Stiles had been going through? It suddenly made sense why Stiles couldn't keep his hands to himself.

And then, just as quickly, the overload was gone. Derek felt himself able to breathe suddenly, the shock of the onslaught staggering in its absence. He blinked his eyes and found he could see again. Except what he saw was the inside of Sheriff Stilinski’s office at the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department. He was as far away from the Sanctuary as he could get, which meant it wasn't real. Derek lifted his hand, counted his fingers to be sure he wasn't dreaming. His hand looked normal, right down to the sharpie squiggled lines that Stiles had drawn on the back of his thumb.

Somehow Derek was in the right place. But there was no Stiles to be found. The office door was locked when he tugged at it.

“He won't let you out, either,” a voice said from behind him. Turning quickly, Derek saw the office was occupied. The sheriff sat at his desk, looking like a disappointed version of himself. It was slightly surprising to see Claudia leaned against the front edge of the table, too. She looked ten years younger than the woman Derek had met at the Sanctuary. And she wasn't dressed in the patched up rags but instead in a summer dress with sunflowers on it. She even wore makeup, something nobody in the Sanctuary had access to. Derek could smell roses and looked around but saw no flowers. It was just Claudia, away from the Sanctuary, although she didn't look happy. Even she looked disappointed.

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek asked. Claudia looked from Derek to the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. Someone sat there and for a second he hoped it might be Stiles. It wasn't though; when the figure stood up, he was too tall, too broad shouldered, and his hair all wrong. The man turned around then and Derek found himself staring at... himself. The man was a few inches taller than Derek, bigger somehow, dressed in an old leather jacket that Derek had ruined a year earlier.

“Who’re you?” The other Derek did not want him around and approached cautiously. In a defensive stance, he blocked Derek’s view of Claudia and the sheriff.

“I’m on the clock,” said Derek. This wasn't why he was here. He backed off toward the door. “I need to find Stiles.”

“You aren't supposed to be here,” the other Derek told him. He reached to keep Derek away from the door and suddenly Derek found himself in a fight with himself, confused but getting quickly angry for it. He instinctively relied on claws and teeth to make the bigger threat step back and felt none of the usual stretching pain as he did. It wasn't real. But it was in his way. His bizarre mirror looked surprised, kept back and stared at the partial shift. Derek put his back to the door before he calmed down. The claws disappeared and he didn't feel fangs. It was too easy, too foreign.

Because it wasn't real, Derek told himself that the door wasn't locked and he tried the knob again. It rattled in his hand, put up a good fight, but Derek growled at it and it opened. He had pulled that trick on Stiles a hundred times, easy intimidation. He looked back at the others before he closed the door again.

“This stays locked,” he told them. Just because he didn't want to deal with a fake Derek running around and getting in his face. It was all too weird.

He went looking for Stiles then, not making it far out of the back offices before Stiles showed up. He looked dazed, fragile and thin like Derek had never seen him. There were dark circles under his eyes and it looked like blood trailing from his ears. He looked annoyed to see Derek.

“Man, I told you! Stay in the office! I gotta keep him out and I gotta keep you and them safe and I can't do both-” Stiles’ rambling was silenced by Derek catching him by the shoulders. He didn't believe what he was seeing, didn't understand any of it.

“Stiles! Stop!” It was an order as much as an appeal. “I need you out here, okay? Come back with me-”

Stiles stared at him. “Back where? I gotta keep the guy out! He's trying to get in and I have to block everything...”

“No, Stiles... you’re zoned. You’ve been stuck in your own head for a day. You have to snap out of it.”

“But the guy with your face...”

“He’s still in the Ward, okay? Just wake up and Blair can explain- But this isn't real. I had to come find you,” said Derek. He let go of Stiles and flexed claws to illustrate what he meant. “Listen, I’m serious- Does your neck hurt?”

Stiles lifted a hand to the back of his neck, feeling out the area of his neck that had wolf claws buried in it, outside of his memories. It was a strange kind of dreamwalking, entering someone else’s mind and the more Derek experienced it the less he liked it. He willed Stiles to hurry up and wake up.

Instead, Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. He caught at the hand Derek held up to check for the sharpie mark. “Or you’re him-”

Derek pulled his hand back, frustrated. “I’m not him! I’m _me_ and I’m saying let's go! I don't know how to get out of here without you. So stop fucking around-”

“Sounds a lot like what a demon who stole your face to get at me would say,” Stiles argued. Derek growled a little, tightened his hold on Stiles’ shoulder to keep him from backing away.

“I’m Derek, Stiles. Just me. Jim says he knows it's me because I smell like Blair. A changeling wouldn't smell like anybody, right?”

Stiles inhaled and then frowned, looking confused. “I can't smell anything.”

That seemed like a promising track and Derek nodded to encourage it. “Yeah, because all your senses are maxed out because you’re zoned and trying to keep a changeling out of your brain. This isn't how you do it.”

Somehow it didn't work. Stiles rolled his shoulder, trying to dislodge him and Derek refused to let him.

“Okay! I need you, Stiles. I never say that but I’m saying it now. You’re the only one I can count on. It's why I’m here at all. I’m not messing around with this, so you gotta come back,” said Derek. “You wanna know how this is me? I’ll show you.”

Looking still fragile and now shellshocked, Stiles didn't protest when Derek pulled him in for a crushing hug and a firm kiss. It was mutual in a heartbeat, Stiles holding him close, relaxing into the touch.

And then, suddenly, neither of them could breathe. Derek saw white again as his senses lit up. Everything was loud, bright, strong and painful. But he held Stiles still. On top of the noise and the input surge from his senses, Derek felt another layer add to the chaos, something like emotions. He felt memories, snapshots and flashes that he couldn't quite make sense of. Anger and relief and pain and love and fear all jumbled up and dragging on him. But it wasn't his.

As soon as it started, it was gone. Derek opened his eyes and saw Stiles staring at him from an inch away. There was no telling if it had worked at all, they still lay exactly as tangled as they had been. He was too bright, Derek's senses still too raw from sharing with Stiles. But he still held Stiles’ neck cupped carefully in his palm, claws tucked away to keep from hurting him any further.

“Stiles?” he whispered. Finally the brown eyes blinked and Stiles kissed him. There was no crazy slide through a sensory overload that time. Just a kiss. Just Stiles. Derek wrapped his arms tight and hung on.

 

****

 

It felt like Blair had walked into a whole new level of weird when he showed up in the cellblock, and considering everything about the Sanctuary, that was saying something. Jim was usually a grump and could be a bit of a jerk, but he was fairly radiating low-level anger before Blair had even opened his mouth. It got ten times worse when Talia and Derek got involved, and it became glaringly obvious that Blair was out of the loop. And all he knew was that Jim said whatever Talia wasn't telling him was important. Which, incidentally, he found out when Jim called her out for not telling him, so that was a pretty big clue. He was the outsider, he didn't have the clearance levels, he wasn't yet tall enough to ride the amusement park roller coaster... fine, whatever.

But the strange, awkward silence that resulted was going to drive Blair more insane than wondering what he wasn't allowed to know.

“Okay, I get that I’m out there and you're stuck in here, but... you get that I’m on your side still, right?” Blair finally asked. Talia looked at him, brow raised in surprise, before she seemed to get distracted by something. She looked to Jim.

“Do you smell-”

“Blood. I smell blood,” Jim said. He looked around, nostrils flared just slightly on the hunt. He looked confused, like Talia, and then looked to the cell behind him. “Oh shit. What the hell-”

Jim rushed into the cell, Talia following after him until she was brought up short by the ash line on the floor. “Jim! Let me in!”

“Derek! Let him go!” Jim didn't pay attention, just knelt at the edge of the bunk beds and tried to get Derek to pay attention to him. Blair edged carefully around a pissed off Talia to see what had caught Jim's senses.

“Uh... what... please tell me that isn't what it looks like,” said Blair. He saw Jim reach toward Derek’s hands and pulled him back. Derek’s claws were embedded in Stiles’ neck and there was no telling what removing them could do. Behind them, Talia crossed her arms, paced a few steps from her anger at being locked out.

“He's trying to access Stiles’ memory. We can... communicate that way. It's... not an exact science,” said Talia.

“Are you shitting me? That is so freakin'  _cool_ \- right. _Bad_ time,” Blair had to switch gears to avoid the death-ray that was Talia’s glare in that moment. “Well how do we make him stop? _Do_ we make him stop? Is this okay- damn, I don't know what this will do to his _senses_ -”

“Will it work?” Jim asked, looking to Talia. She shrugged, looking something close to helpless, which was something Blair had never seen from the woman.

“It could? But not knowing what has him in this state, it could just put Derek under, too.” She was not happy about the report. Blair looked to Derek, leaned in to check the angle of the cuts and the placement against Stiles’ neck. He wanted to ask a hundred questions but knew it was not the time. He backed off, crouched over his heels between Jim and the door, then looked to his partner.

“What do you hear? Are they okay?” he asked. “Signs of distress? Anything failing?”

Jim shook his head. “Derek’s heart rate is elevated. Stiles’ hasn't changed.”

Blair tugged Jim's arm to pull him back. “Then give them space. Trust Derek. Let him work. He knows the kid.”

Reluctant, Jim held his hands up and got to his feet. He pulled Blair up with him. “Fine. We give them space.”

And at those words there was a gasping noise from the pair on the bunk. Both of them. Blair heard two people. He crouched to see under the upper bunk and saw... well, he saw them kissing is what he saw. Smirking, Blair looked to Jim.

“Told you he had it,” he said. Jim frowned and risked life and limb to thump at the metal bunk support.

“Knock it off, you two. You’re going to put him under again when we just got him back,” Jim ordered. Blair stood up to let Jim supervise the buzzkill, left the cell entirely to avoid the fallout. But there was only quiet.

“He _is_ back, right?” he asked. He leaned against the bars with Talia still locked out and worried beside him.

“Yeah, he’s back,” Stiles confirmed. He immediately had his hands over his ears as he tried to untangle from Derek’s space. Even his own voice was too loud for him coming out of the twenty-four-hour zone. The funny thing was, Derek did the same thing.

“A little sensitive to noise?” Blair asked, voice quiet and even to soften the blow. Stiles nodded his head so hard he was going to give himself whiplash. Beside him, Derek winced. They were mostly seated on the edge of the cot now, hunched over their knees as they _both_ adjusted to a sensory overload. That was weird.

“Dial it back, chief,” Jim offered, his attention on Stiles.

“You know the dial trick by now, right, Derek?” Blair asked. Somehow the Lycan MindMeld trick had left Derek’s senses turned up, too.

“Theory, yeah,” grumbled Derek. “Not the practice.”

“Well... no time like the present for that...” The quiet encouragement took every scrap of restraint that Blair could manage. He was burning with questions but he knew better than to ask. He looked to Talia, pointed in at the boys.

“Can you do that to me? I wanna know what just happened...”

“God no, Blair!” said Talia, even as Jim chimed in with “Knock it off, Sandburg.”

 

******


	13. Chapter 13

Apparently, according to _everyone_ , Stiles had been a human zombie for twenty four hours. That would have been awesome if A) they had been joking or 2) Stiles could actually remember his quests for brains. Or whatever he was chasing.

What he remembered was hour after hour of fortifying the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department with every last scrap of anything useful he could MacGyver into blocking out the windows. He had taken to Scotch tape and case files as a way to keep people from seeing in because moving file cabinets by himself was not the kind of superhuman strength even the mental-version of himself was capable of.

Stiles had no idea who was trying to see in, all he ever saw were shadows, and he heard voices that said a lot of things about it. Most of what he heard wasn't in English or any sounds that sounded like a language at all. All that stuck out was the soft voice that sounded like Lydia that called it a changeling, so that's what Stiles called the shadow when he saw it. He knew for certain that he had to keep them out. He didn't want a nogitsune to creep up and stuff him in a locker again, so he would go to the effort of turning the department into a fortress if he had to.

Stiles had no idea why he had locked himself up in his dad’s office building in his brain, but he knew upon waking up that he had never been so homesick in his life.

“I want my dad,” he said in answer to Talia’s asking if he was alright. Then he looked up at her, feeling confused and afraid and stupid all at once. “Is my mom still alive? Or was that the- the whatever it is.”

“Changeling,” Blair offered up, trying to be helpful, even as Talia talked over him to assure Stiles that his mom was still alive and real. Stiles shoved off the bunk, intent to find her. The rest of the surroundings hit him then - gray walls, gray bars, noises echoing down a long hallway and around every single cell, even Jim standing at the back of the cell and Talia at the door of it - and Stiles realized there was nothing familiar around him at all, except Derek. Even his mom was still out of place, wherever she was.

Stiles stopped to lean a hand against the wall, trying to catch his breath, get his bearings, as reality reasserted itself over the version that had been so vivid in his mind. It was all so familiar, the disorientation, the missing time in another place, but everything was in the Sanctuary instead of at home. He had worked so hard, for hours, to stay on familiar ground and it hadn't been real.

Now all he felt was the sweep of panic as it threatened to take his breath and knock him to the ground.

“Hey! Hey... hey, Stiles, stay with us, man-” Blair’s voice was worried and quick, but blessedly quiet, and the only person who got in Stiles’ space was Derek.

“We’re leaving, remember?” Stiles heard Derek ask. He was quiet, something like a whisper but Stiles could still hear his voice. Derek had a hand at his back to help him balance but he didn't get in his face. It was just one thing after another lately and somehow it was Derek Hale who still had his back. It was important and helped Stiles keep going, but at the same time, it made no sense and kicked a laugh out of his lungs before he realized it. At least he was able to breathe again.

Stiles turned enough to sling an arm around Derek’s shoulders - he was still afraid to let go of the wall in case it disappeared again - to get at least a half hug in while he waited for his mouth and brain to get back on speaking terms with each other. They blocked Jim’s exit to the hall but nobody said anything, they just let Stiles recover. To Stiles’ shock, Derek wrapped both arms around for a complete hug, no shortcuts or half-assing accepted. And he didn't let go until Stiles’ panicked breathing calmed down and the trembling stopped.

“Okay... I’m okay,” Stiles told them. It was a declarative statement, for their benefit and his own. The world sucked but it wasn't tilted sideways and closing in on him. He was okay, he just had to give himself a minute to believe it.

A few minutes later he crowded into Jim’s cell with his mom. She was okay, too. Didn't have a bloody neck from what Blair _really_ loved to call a Lycan MindMeld, so that had to be a good sign. The mountain ash barrier in front of the metal lined box was somehow enough to keep the whatever-it-was out of her mind, which made it stranger that it didn't work for Stiles.

“We think it's a changeling,” Blair offered up. “It’s fae of some sort, definitely. The notes said the clan it was found with had been terrorized for months by random attacks of the supernatural, culminating in the elders deciding to raze the village to the ground-”

“What?” Stiles asked. “They just torched the entire town?”

“Well, yeah. It was the late seventies, most of the families had been chased out by this year-long curse of some kind, so they basically sold the village to some developers and lit it on fire on their way out,” replied Blair. “This guy is Irish as hell, man. Miranda thinks they’re dealing with something pretty high level, you know? Really strong. And even though they've been accidentally - or maybe intentionally, probably- poisoning it for thirty years, it's finally come online in just a few weeks. So she's probably right, to some extent.”

Stiles started shaking his head, refusing the conclusions he was coming to. “So you’re telling me I've got a fairy demon trying to dig around in my brain? No way, man. Just no. I've already done this shit-”

“We don't know what it is,” Blair said quickly. “And that's the problem. You and Claudia are the only ones it will talk to. We aren't the ones who can find out, and oh boy is Miranda gonna be so pissed when she finds that out, too. This is, like, her pet project here, and you are not her favorite people.”

“If I heard that right, you’re suggesting Stiles and I actually talk to this thing?” Claudia was a lot calmer about it than Stiles could manage. Before his mom had even finished speaking, Stiles was shaking his head and making every known universal hand signal for the word No.

“You can forget that-”

“I’m not suggesting let him in your head! No way,” said Blair. He sounded nervous and unabashedly edged toward Jim to get away from the potential threat of Talia. But Talia did nothing more than stare at him, waiting for an explanation. Stiles pointed at Blair to keep his attention away from the women who were willing to consider his crazy talk.

“No. N-o. Noooope. Nunca. Never happening, don't even bother...”

“A conversation! Face to freaky-stolen-face-thing,” said Blair. “I can get into the Ward now, Miranda gave me his case... I mean, shouldn't we try to help the guy? Nobody deserves the literal shit he's been through, and if the least we can do is talk to him-”

“You aren't serious,” said Victoria. Stiles pointed to the lurker just past the bars because - for once, bizarrely - the former hunter was on his side and the only other person apparently interested in logic.

“You don't just talk to these things,” Stiles insisted. “Okay? The second you give them one little tiny speck of a corner to see daylight, they steal your face and go on a killing spree!”

“This one already stole my face,” Derek pointed out. But somehow he seemed to be siding with Blair, and Stiles balked. Derek looked at him. “So what if we talk to him in the Ward? The worst case scenario is that someone wearing my face goes on a killing spree and the Ward gets leveled? Damn, how will we live with our conscience after such a trauma.”

Okay, Stiles could appreciate that outcome.

“Except for the part when they bust out of the Ward and people who don't deserve it get in the way,” said Jim.

“Like me,” added Stiles. “I _like_ my brain, comparatively anyway, and would rather not get evicted from it _again_. Single-occupancy-preferred, man. Brain _not_ for sale-”

“So that's why I go try to talk to him,” said Claudia. “Maybe it is just trying to be heard, and we are the only ones it can reach. We know how to get it out of my head now with the Rowan wood. I can talk to it without being as enticing a target as maybe Stiles is.”

“No.” The chorus this time was from not just Stiles, but also Talia and Victoria.

“Three against one, that idea loses,” Stiles reported.

“Okay, hold up,” said Jim. He caught hold of Blair’s shoulder to make the man shut up with his stupid ideas already and Stiles felt a little less likely to try decking his friend in the face. There was no fucking way he would let Blair take his mom up to the Ward after seeing what that place did to people.

“This is the stupidest idea-” Stiles started up again only to have Jim shush him again.

“Look! We’re low on options right now, you guys. We can either sit here, with no answers, and just watch Stiles and Cloudy get their brains hijacked on the regular, apparently, or we try for answers,” Jim said. Stiles shook his head.

“Or we leave-”

“That’s great and all, Stiles, but this place is a _prison_. I’ll be right on board the second you show me how. And half the people here can’t cross a damn line of ash, so who the hell knows what other kinds of traps they’ve got rigged around the place,” Jim argued. “We can’t count on any escapes getting anyone out. And we sure as hell can’t count on any kind of escape plans when you and your mom drop into a walking coma at the drop of a hat.”

“He’s right, Stiles,” Talia said. She didn’t look any happier about it than Jim did, but she wasn’t on his side anymore. “We can’t rely on Derek pulling you out like he did this last time. You don’t heal. He _can’t_ do that again.”

Stiles crossed his arms and put himself in the tiny corner behind the bunk, facing out at the adults determined to ruin what shred he had left of his sanity. “Fine. Then what are we supposed to do? Huh?”

“We talk to him,” said Claudia.

“Nope.”

Claudia looked to Blair. “You said you can bring me up there with you. Is this prearranged or-”

Thanks to his naturally superior reflexes, Derek got between Stiles and the rest of the cell before he could start problems like he very dearly wanted to. There was a brief glaring match before Stiles looked around Derek at his mom. “ _You_ aren’t going up there.”

His mom shook her head at him, arms crossed out of stubbornness but still trying to placate him. “I’ve been up there before, I’m not worried-”

“I’ll go, damnit. Not you,” Stiles said. He was angry and he was tired and he wanted the stupid ideas to stop, but he could be more stubborn than his mom. And she was not going to talk to some mind-invading changeling. Stiles had a vivid imagination that told him helpfully how it all would end if she did and he did not want to risk it. Nobody seemed inclined to argue with him.

Besides, now he knew Derek could pull him out of the whiteouts that weren't caused by the zone-outs. It was at least a little reassuring. “But I swear to god, if this thing eats my brain, I am coming back and haunting _all_ of you.”

 

*****

 

For all the Sunrise Patriots were a big, clandestine protest organization with guns, they were, ultimately, stuck being nice to people who knew things they wanted to know. They had to play a little politics to get things to go their way. That meant that, rather than be taken to this meetup where they would potentially be stranded or worse without their own transportation, Allison and Lydia shared the back seat of Chris’ rental car so their new friend Jericho could guide them to see the next up in the line of command. His buddy followed in their car, everyone got along peacefully if suspiciously, and they all arrived at the meeting happy and healthy with no extra holes in their bodies. It was a good sign.

Somehow, strangely, Allison’s headache had disappeared again, for the first time since leaving Beacon Hills. She felt alert and clearheaded as she tried to take note of street names and landmarks as her father drove. It turned out to be wasted effort because they ended up at a somewhat busy parking lot that was a good enough landmark all on its own. One of the box-store home improvement retail stores shared a parking lot with a smaller business that looked like a lumber yard. They had a statue of an ox prominent on the roof of the old building at the front of the rows of small warehouses and piled up 2x4s. It was impossible to miss and easy to remember later. How many Oxley Lumber stores could there be in the city, really?

It was a public place and the men's weapons were going to be a problem, so everyone kept their weapons in their holsters under their jackets. Allison’s knife was tucked in the slim sheath along her belt so she left her handgun under the driver’s seat before following Lydia out. They walked through the busy parking lot and into the small hardware store, past rows of paint buckets and power tools and the check registers. The group caught the attention of a few people in green colored aprons but otherwise there was no fanfare, no special welcoming committee with more guns. The most intimidating thing about the apparent secret headquarters of the Sunrise Patriots was the collection of axes and handsaws along one wall.

They ended up in an upstairs office, crammed in with the clutter between file cabinets. Allison and Lydia took seats in front of a large desk, while Chris got to stand, because gentlemen were supposed to offer ladies a comfy place to sit.

“You and me will wait up here while somebody tracks down Toby,” said Jericho. He waved off toward the window overlooking the business yard below. “It's a pretty big place so it could take a minute.”

Allison looked around, instinctively wary of threats. She could smell the redwood lumber and the sawdust from outside. Smells like that could sometimes trigger a headache so she was hyperalert for problems. Not long later, Jericho’s friend Toby showed up. He was about Allison’s dad’s age and apparently the owner of Oxley’s. The man was fit and trim but silver haired, so he seemed old, and he smiled like a salesman trying to land a big account. The Sunrise Patriots weren't mentioned in the introductions, though. Their reason for visiting waited until after Toby had taken his seat across the desk.

“So which one of you knows where to find my dad?” Toby asked. The question seemed to surprise Lydia.

“Who?” she blurted. It didn't inspire confidence.

“Garrett Kincaid. My father. Whose whereabouts you are supposedly aware of?” said Toby. Lydia seemed to gather herself to get back on track.

“I’m sorry. It’s just none of the news articles ever mentioned a family, so-”

Toby shrugged it off, unconcerned. “It's not exactly something we advertise. Particularly once he went away.”

“So is the organization following _you_ now?” Lydia asked. It was apparently another awkward question. Behind her, Allison’s dad stepped forward.

“She's asking because you’ll need them to get him out,” he said quickly. “And you’re going to want to get him out. They've got him locked up in a blacksite and use him as a lab rat. It's not a prison.”

Surprised, Toby leaned forward to devote his attention to Chris. “Let's get down to the brass tacks here, then. Where is this place? What is it?”

“It’s called the Sanctuary,” said Allison. “And it doesn't actually exist. Except we have the blueprints.”

“And someone on the inside,” added Lydia. “A few people, actually. So we know what goes on in there. And it's bad.”

“How do you have all of these things?” Toby seemed concerned, but also suspicious, and Allison really couldn't blame him for that.

“The Internet,” said Lydia, quick and bored, dispatching unimportant details. “I have a friend who is really good with computers. We got in through the county records because nobody thinks to check local codes for federal government projects.”

Toby’s expression didn't change much. “But how did you know to look there?”

“My boyfriend’s father is an FBI agent and we know somebody he had locked up there,” Allison replied. They had to be consistent with their story, even if she wasn't comfortable with it. She shrugged it off. “Technically he’s an ex now but he's still how we found out about all this.”

“And you think that Garrett Kincaid is there? What, just because some Fed ran his mouth to his kid or something?”

“No, they hacked the rosters and his name was on the list, right down to the ward he’s kept in,” said Chris. “And the photos we've got of the outside of that building show that ward lights up as radioactive, so he’s not staying in an all-expenses paid health resort, here. If you get within a mile of that place, you can hear the screaming.”

Allison nodded in silent agreement; she had heard the screaming clearly that morning, but it wasn't exactly screaming because it wasn't exactly human. And it was really more like the chaos of noises at a zoo. It seemed like a bad time to point that out, however.

Instead, Lydia jumped right into the heart of things. “If we gave you the data, could your organization break him out?”

The man smiled broadly and suddenly looked a lot younger than the silver hair made him seem. “I own a lumber yard, miss.”

“Yeah, well, a man can do a lot of damage with an awl,” replied Chris, unimpressed by the lie. “But the hired gunmen the Sunrise Patriots send to do their bidding tend to be a lot more productive.”

Allison had been away for awhile but she knew her friend pretty well, and she knew when the theatrics were due to start. She heard the solid tap of Lydia’s shoes against the wood floor and saw her stand up, haughty and annoyed.

“We didn't come here for the lumber,” she snapped off. “We came here for help. If you can't get him out then we don't need to waste any more of our time.”

Toby leaned back in his chair, assessing Lydia and her cause thoughtfully. “You are very invested in my father’s welfare.”

“No, I am very invested in my friends’ welfare, and your father is very conveniently placed to help them,” Lydia corrected primly. “We have the layout, we know who is there, we have people who live on the inside. But you have the resources to do something about it. So do you want him back, or not?”

Somehow Lydia had grown up in the few months since Allison had last seen her. She stood in front of Toby’s desk, arms crossed lightly in front of her, firm business and ready to walk away. She wasn't messing around. Allison glanced back at her dad; they were just Lydia’s protection detail, it was all her show. Chris didn't seem to have much faith in anybody going along with it and he eyed the door, ready to leave.

Toby shrugged at them, completely unimpressed. “If my father’s in a church somewhere, I don't see what the problem is-”

“Church?!” asked Lydia. Allison frowned but kept her mouth shut rather than ask if the man was still competent to run a business if he couldn’t follow a simple conversation.

“You said he's in a sanctuary-”

“No. She said he’s in a black site prison, called the Sanctuary, like a wildlife sanctuary or protected reserve, where the animals are kept inside and the humans are kept outside,” said Chris, stepping forward. Allison looked back at her dad, surprised by the anger she heard in his voice. “It is a prison. Our guy inside, Sandburg said every entrance has a card ID system and guards, the whole nine yards. Once someone goes in that place, they don't come out alive. So trying to take down a place like this is suicide.”

“But _not_ if you have the _Sunrise Patriots_ behind you,” added Allison quickly. Her dad was biased and didn’t want to tackle the risks but she wasn’t going to let him give up entirely. “We just need numbers and a strategy, and the Patriots have experience in stuff like this.”

Toby seemed to be relaxing his suspicions then, he looked maybe even interested in helping. He leaned forward again to lace his fingers together on the desk.

“In my experience, projects on this scale can only be accomplished with inside help. So tell me more about your man inside. We need access. Can he get us in?”

“We haven't asked. We just know Blair works for them, we don't know what that means,” said Lydia. She shrugged and tried to dismiss it. “Aren't there other ways?”

“It depends on the project,” said Toby. He stood up from behind the desk. “But your friend Blair Sandburg is where we start with this one.”

“What? Why? We have all the building information already. He can't-” Lydia’s protest was cut short by an amused laugh from Toby.

“No offense, Miss Martin, but I don't know you from Eve. If you’re really looking out for your friends, that's too bad. But Sandburg... if _he_ knows where my father is and hasn't thought to mention it to me for all these years? Well, that's an offense to our friendship and I should pay him a visit on this one.”

Allison looked to Lydia at the sudden, startling change of plans. Gone was her friend’s confidence, in its place the first sign of the kind of deep worry that borderlined on fear. This was not part of the plan. She couldn't bluff their way through this. And even if they could, Toby was already hurrying them out the door with his jacket and hat in hand, completely uninterested in whatever they had to say.

 

*****


	14. Chapter 14

The nice thing about Blair’s former personal relationship with the Warden of the Sanctuary was having her number programmed into his phone. He stood in the cell surrounded by werewolves and Sentinels and was able to call up his request rather than risk unnecessary lockdowns trying to arrange it. It was easy. The downside to that same perk was that Miranda knew him well enough to know when he lied. Trying to convince her that Stiles was nothing special but needed to talk to the coma-case in Ward Six didn't go over well.

“You’re telling me that a werewolf and a kid with absolutely no supernatural powers at all somehow, in some reality, can communicate with my comatose faerie child? Which part do I start on first, Blair? The part where it's bullshit that Stilinski has no latent side effects from the nogitsune? Or the part where a werewolf needs a _nobody_ to talk to a fae who can't talk?” Miranda at least wasn't pissed, but she was apparently in a mood.

“Look, I’m telling you what I know, okay? Last I checked, neither you nor me had the first damn clue how any of this stuff actually works, so all I can do is be straight with you. The kid’s whiteouts aren't from his senses, they’re the changeling taking over. I just watched it happen myself, okay? So let me take him up there.”

“Fine, but what does that have to do with Derek Hale? I don't want _werewolves_ around my changeling-”

“Derek goes where Stiles goes, I told you that a month ago!” said Blair. Derek crossed his arms and shifted his stance; he could hear both sides of the conversation as well as Blair could and he dropped into protective mode. “Derek’s the only one that can get Stiles out of-”

“Considering Jim Ellison has been on his own for over two years, your Sentinel-needs-Guide theory is crap, Blair. Stiles can be a big boy and visit the Ward on his own, or he can stay where he is. But my changeling currently has Derek Hale’s _face_ and I do _not_ want them in the same room together. _Ever_. Do you understand?”

Blair scowled at the ceiling as he tried to figure out how to negotiate with the woman. Her fears weren't exactly unfounded, there was a huge risk in taking Stiles up there and an even bigger risk taking Derek up there. “This is the only thing that could work, Miranda. Until we try-”

“Nope. One of them can go up. The other stays in the yard.”

Stiles reached out to take the phone from Blair. It was unexpected and Blair ducked into Jim’s shoulder, surprised as much as shielding the phone.

“Let me talk to her,” Stiles said. Blair hesitated; the last thing any of them needed was Stiles pissing off the warden again.

“Maybe I should mediate-”

“Fine, tell her the fae told me he wanted to talk to Derek,” said Stiles. “When I was stuck in the white out, that's what he said, so you’re just trying to help him.”

This was news and Blair squinted at him, the phone ducked protectively to his shoulder as he tried to figure it out. “What the hell, man? Why didn't you-”

It figured that Jim would be the one to watch for; he had half hidden against his friend and Jim had the perfect opportunity to cuff him in the side of the head. “He said to tell _her_ , he didn't say to make a federal case out of it.”

Blair caught on then. It was a lie. He rubbed at his ear. “Damnit! Why don't people freakin’ tell me things- jeezus. Fine.” His attention returned to the phone then.

“Derek has to go because the changeling asked for him,” Blair told Miranda. “He can talk to Stiles in the whiteouts and he's using that to talk to the real world and he wants to talk to Derek. So if you want to get this guy back online, you've got to get him what he wants, right?”

There was some swearing and a lot of dead air. Blair waited her out.

“I don't like any of this,” Miranda said. “Why didn't you tell me about this before you went in there? We could have discussed this, we could have had a plan, made arrangements...”

“I didn't know about it before, obviously,” said Blair. “And I’m here now. We know about it now. So we can just try it. See what happens. If your changeling eats Stiles’ face or something this time, fine, I’ll take responsibility for it. But that won't happen.”

“I’m probably going to kill _you_ later,” Stiles offered up. “It's a thing that _could_ happen.”

Blair ignored it. “None of this is my fault. I’m just working with what I’ve got in front of me,” he said, speaking to both the room around him and the phone. He focused on his boss again for a moment then. “Which, by the way, is exactly what you pay me for and why I have gotten further with your projects than any of the _other_ scientists on your staff. So are we doing this or not? The natives are getting restless.”

“Fine! Get them up here and find out if they can get the fae back to life,” Miranda finally said. Blair grumbled out an acknowledgment and killed the call. He looked from Stiles to Derek and back.

“I get it, man. This is not safe. It's not fun for anybody. But it's the best we've got in front of us for now. So are we good or what? Because if you smart off like that up in the Ward, they’ll keep you and I won't get to bring you back. If you give them any excuse at all, man, I lose you both up there.”

Derek nodded like he understood, because his file said he understood it very well, but Stiles rolled his eyes.

“It was a joke. I’m pissed but not psycho. Yet, anyway.”

“Yeah, we know that,” offered up Jim. “But they don't exactly have a sense of humor up there. So he's saying don't provoke anybody up there.”

“At all,” added Derek. He nodded toward Blair. “He’s on our side. So cool it.”

“I get it,” said Stiles. “And we’re cool. But I’m so tired of this crap and I want that thing _up there_ to go away.”

“That's why we should try to talk to it,” said Claudia. “If what happened to you is anything like what I experienced, maybe it just wants a way to communicate. Maybe we can help it get what it needs and then it will go away. Things can get back to normal once it leaves.”

“We’re still _here_ ,” said Stiles. “This _place_ isn't normal.”

While Blair agreed with Stiles, he didn't dare say anything about it. Until he had a way to get them all out of the Sanctuary, whatever life they had in the yard was the only normal they could hope for. He wanted Jim home, he wanted to go back to life as a detective, sure. But that life was over two years gone, upended and tossed out when Jim disappeared. So there was no such thing as normal for Blair anymore, not when he was standing in a jail cell surrounded by, well, metahumans was the only generalized term he could find for it all so far. Extra senses, extra skills, extra everything on top of the usual human expectations of life. Everything was different, so the place was only a small part of everything odd. And Blair hadn't figured out how to solve their location issue yet. He hadn't failed everybody yet, but he hadn't succeeded, either. He was still working on it.

“ _Normal_ doesn't exist anymore, Stiles,” Blair offered. “We have to work with what we've got.”

 

******

 

The Hale family tree wasn't anything spectacular. There were no magical gods, no all powerful alphas, nothing that stood out for any reason. The Hales had a house in Beacon Hills, and they always had a pack to keep going. From what Derek knew of the family lore, Talia Hale hadn't even wanted to be a Hale as a teen, because the Hales weren't enough. That was why she left Beacon Hills before she finished high school and didn't come back until she was old enough to drink.

They were an old family in a small town, but they weren't involved or important, they just stubbornly held on to the property near the park and had to tolerate hikers and environmentalists and developers who wanted to invade their territory. The strangers snooping had always driven his mom crazy, she always had to know who was around and why, and Derek had always thought that was an alpha thing, that it came with the pack. But it hadn't, really.

It came with the genes. Laura had been like that, always bossing, always snooping. _Control, push, move_. And Cora made no secret of what she thought about Derek and the Hale line she was tied to. They weren't enough, they were weak and an embarrassment. He couldn't blame her, they had failed their own family pretty hard.

But despite growing up without her, Derek knew now that Cora got her attitude from their mother. Her temper and her strength and her fearlessness. And her sass. And her pride and her talent for secret keeping. Laura had been more like Talia in mannerisms, she had known her longer, but Cora had taken after their mom just as much.

That was why Derek didn't tell Stiles what he knew about Blair, why he sided with Blair. He didn't tell Blair what Talia wouldn't tell them. She didn't want him to know, and if there was anything Derek had learned from the Hale women, it was that they were ruthless when ignored or called out. He didn't want to risk it in the Sanctuary. It could cost him too much. It would cost him Stiles. Talia had already tried to keep them separated before, she would do it again if she thought Derek was out of line. It was the price of a pack, answering to an alpha, and Derek had learned plenty about the tactics of a pack over the years. His uncle and Deucalion had been prime examples of every reason he preferred to be alone.

Derek knew he could trust Stiles, he didn't want to risk something happening to that. He remembered the version of himself that he had met in Stiles’ mind, someone stronger and protective, and he knew that was how Stiles saw him. But he also remembered the rush of emotions that Stiles shoved at him as he dragged him back to reality; it wasn't a blind faith between them. Stiles knew him, accepted him, trusted him, maybe even loved him. That was something that a place like the Sanctuary could destroy. It wasn't something Derek wanted to expose to the anger of a stubborn alpha. He was more afraid of his mother than he had been in his life.

Until that settled down, Derek wasn't going to talk about it. He wasn't going to think about it, that would only make him angry, and they could not afford an explosion of Hales in a relatively small space like the Sanctuary. There were a few things his family was good at, as a whole, and one of them was not dealing with the problem until it couldn't be ignored anymore. The problem of Blair Sandburg was going to be ignored as long as possible.

But Blair was still somebody worth trusting. He was somebody his mother trusted, and control-freaks like the Hales didn't trust easily, Derek knew well enough. Derek trusted that Blair and Jim were looking out for Stiles. That meant that, just this once, Derek trusted them enough to follow Blair back to Ward Six. It was a longer walk than Derek remembered from before. He kept Stiles and Blair in sight and tried to keep the instinct to fight the guards around them in check. Stiles nudged his elbow along the way and nodded his attention toward their surroundings as they moved along connecting hallways.

“Help me take notes, huh?” Stiles asked, so quiet Blair probably couldn't even hear him. Derek looked around at the doors that lined the hall. Escape routes. Places to avoid or hide in. Things that wouldn't be on the blueprints Stiles had been studying for a month. Derek nodded and stopped glaring at the back of some stranger’s head to instead start scanning windows they passed.

They got to the security checkpoint with little harassment and Blair moved through the required safeguards without hesitation. Like he had been here way too many times.

“Why’s that one back?” one of the guards asked, a hand to Blair’s shoulder to keep him from advancing to the retina scanner. The man’s attention was on Derek though.

“Better question, where are the handcuffs?” his partner asked. Both of them had hands on the guns at their sides and an entire arsenal behind them. Derek tried to look small while Stiles bared teeth and snapped at the men to taunt them. Blair stepped back into Stiles, arm across his chest to keep the smart ass safely behind him.

“What’s that one? Another wolf or what?” asked the guard. The two who had escorted Blair and his two helpful prisoners up from the yard caught Derek by the arm then, keeping tabs on him as things went mildly sideways on them.

“Trustees,” Blair said quickly. He patted Stiles. “And this one’s just a smart ass, so can we go in before you feel the inevitable urge to shoot him?”

Derek felt absolutely no urge to defend Stiles’ character and the guards backed off.

“Fine. But trustees aren’t exempt from policy,” one of the guards said. Derek didn’t like the threat implied by it and tensed. The guard at his arm clenched a hand around his wrist a little stronger. The Ward guard dug into a cupboard and came out with metal bracelets of handcuffs. Involuntarily reminded of previous experiences in the Ward, Derek bared his teeth and stepped away. Blair looked back at him in concern, but he was trying to keep Stiles out of trouble and couldn’t offer up much help.

“Hey!” Stiles sounded annoyed as the guard caught him by the wrist and snapped the bracelet around. While Derek was distracted by Stiles’ protest, the guard in front of him caught his wrists in the cuffs, both at once. It was instinctive for Derek then to pull his arms away from each other then, testing the restraints. The Ward didn’t have normal handcuffs with a chain in between. Chains could be broken without any real effort. For the people locked up in the Ward, regular handcuffs accomplished nothing other than to serve as potential weapons. The Ward used electromagnetic bracelets, controlled by the security team’s computers, so there was no chain to worry about. When the bracelets were active, they locked to each other or to the metal linings on the walls. But for the moment, they weren’t active, just metal bands with no keyholes to pick, and Derek’s arms hung loose at his sides with no restraint beyond the guard’s hold on him.

Stiles and Blair hadn’t seen the cuffs before and seemed baffled by the entire experience but they didn’t argue when the Ward guards stepped away to let Blair access the door. He kept a fistful of Stiles’ overshirt as he checked in on the retina scanner and the doors swept open.

The Ward, like everywhere else in the building, was some kind of technological marvel. It was one part hospital and one part tech lab. Everything was designed to be strong and durable, but there were no blind corners, no harsh lighting and no glare. It was built to be sure the humans owned it, with small buttons and gizmos and shatter-proof glass that a clumsy wild animal - like a werewolf - couldn't break through. Little carts with computers rolled around so the technology stayed out of the cells. A panel outside each cell showed what containment procedures applied for each space, some showing the universal symbol warning of a radioactive area.

Blair kept them walking past all of the cells, down another hallway, to another card-key protected door. There, waiting impatiently beside it, stood the Sanctuary Warden. Blair again kept himself between Stiles and the perceived threat.

“Miranda. You said I could bring them up here...” he began. The woman cut him off, nodding her annoyance.

“I did. And they can. You can _try_ this. But one at a time goes in. And I mean it, Blair!” The woman raised her voice as Blair started to argue, her entire stance somehow stronger and taller in her pointy stiletto heels. Stiles cringed at the noise and the earlier sass employed against the guards faded away. The warden folded her arms and every inch of her broadcast that there would be no negotiation.

Blair looked back at Derek like he was asking for an outside opinion. In hindsight it wasn't any kind of a surprise that the warden would pull some kind of control move on them. She was the one who had gotten Derek locked up with them in the first place anyway. It fell exactly in line with what Derek had expected. But he still trusted that maybe they could help Stiles by following through. Derek cracked his neck side to side and rolled his shoulders, not any kind of a threat but rather more of an acceptance. He would be ready if the guards and the warden threw a curveball. Blair caught on.

“Okay. Derek will stay out here. You and me and Stiles go see if we can talk to the changeling, okay?” he said to her. The warden accepted with a nod and pointed the guards and Derek toward the first nearby cell that was empty.

“In there to wait. And no trouble,” she bossed. Derek took a moment to reconsider; locked in a cell was much different than waiting in a hallway. Blair saw the hesitance.

“That was _not_ what I agreed to-”

“Nope, it's what _I_ agreed to. And I outrank you here, Blair. So don't argue,” the warden reminded him. Cold and calm and not a single fuck given.

Derek looked from the warden to Stiles. His friend was worried, already fidgety, and he had the slight squint to his eyes and cringe to his shoulders that said he wasn't watching the dials among all the noise. His crazy senses were amped up high and he hadn't even gone in to see the changeling yet. It was getting worse the longer they stood in the hall arguing about it.

“Stiles!” Derek had to pull his attention away from the death glare he aimed at the warden. He pointed at the door the warden blocked. “Dial it back before you go in there. Don't let anything in. Alright?”

Stiles blinked at him, processing, before he finally nodded. “Got it.”

Then Derek backed off and moved to the door of the empty cell on the hall corner. It had windows all around just like every other cell, tinted glass that looked at least three inches thick. And it looked in on the creepy looking lab room that held the changeling. It wasn't like Derek really wanted to see the thing that had stolen his face, anyway. He just wasn't wild about spending more time in a Ward cell, either. But he didn't say anything as the doors slid shut behind him. He just moved to the windows along the side so he could keep Stiles in sight as Blair and Stiles followed the warden into the changeling’s cell.

*****


	15. Chapter 15

There was a noticeable difference in Stiles as they got closer to the cell where the changeling was kept. He was twitchier and squinted more, cringed at sounds and generally got grumpier. From the physical, outward signs, it meant that his senses turned up, whether he was aware of it or not. Blair noticed but didn't say anything, watching along the way just enough to be sure Derek had a handle on it too. But Miranda swept in and did her thing, so now it was on Blair to keep tabs on the kid.

“The first sign of trouble, we haul your ass back out to Derek,” Blair promised as the door slid shut behind them. Stiles nodded, attention on the room. The life support pod had been moved away from the bed with the unconscious changeling, but it was still in the room, along with the various tools for emergency scenarios, like a crash cart. Because something that started out as a tiny ball of shapeless light would totally respond well to a defibrillator.

“So it talked to you,” said Miranda to Stiles. She didn’t exactly sound impressed.

“It tried to break in and steal my brain,” Stiles corrected. “I’m not exactly it’s biggest fan, so don’t ask for miracles.”

“Miracles is exactly what I’m asking for. It won’t respond to anything less.”

“Well tough shit, lady,” returned Stiles. “Standing in this room hurts my head, okay? I can smell every chemical in here, I can feel the buzzing from every machine, my skin actually feels like it is burning from whatever is going on up here and it sort of all just rattles at my brain and it’s making me crazy. So I’m not feeling particularly miraculous.”

“I told you,” Blair said, cutting in quickly to deflect from Stiles’ cranky complaint. “Modern technology is the problem here. If Stiles can’t stand to be in this room, some supernatural being from the forest probably can’t function. There’s toxic levels of radiation housed in some of these rooms, and you don’t find a lot of animals near those kinds of places in nature. That’s not a miracle, man. That’s just science. If you want to see this thing turn around, let me take it outside-”

“Not happening. Stop asking,” said Miranda. Blair rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. He was done negotiating with terrorists on the matter; he had to save his battles for protecting Jim and Stiles and the Hale pack, so there wasn’t really much room for a face-stealing fae. Instead, he watched as Stiles crept closer to the blanket-wrapped body. At least Miranda had listened to him on that, found something handwoven with natural fibers.

As Stiles stood beside the disturbing clone of the absent Derek, something happened. The body on the table twitched, the hand closest to Stiles flicking fingers out to splay over the blanket. A few very cautious feet away, Stiles jumped, startled because his senses were primed. It wasn’t very loud but Blair thought he heard a soft “Nope-nope-nope-no-” mantra. His inner adult kicked in and he moved to casually - with a calm he didn’t fully feel - get between Stiles and the changeling.

Stiles would be the only one who could tell but his heart was going a mile a minute because he had psyched himself out about risking Stiles around the changeling; what if something did go wrong? What if the changeling really could hack the kid’s brain? It was a tricky gamble that somehow paid off, the changeling seemed to be reacting to Stiles’ mere presence, but there was no way to know where it would go.

Cautious, Blair stood beside the bed and checked the changeling’s wrist for a pulse. When he had checked earlier in the day it was thready, barely noticeable. Now, hardly hours later, it might as well have matched Derek’s. The clone looked the same, like Derek was asleep and agitated. A glance over his shoulder reminded him that Derek was out of the room, in plain sight in another cell.

“He’s still alive, right?” Miranda asked. She stood at the foot of the bed, looking on. For once she was curious, not suspicious. “You should have let me keep the heart monitor on him at least-”

“He’s alive,” said Blair.

“I can hear him from here. He’s fine,” added Stiles. “Can I go now?”

Blair waved him over, shuffling out of the way to let him see without having to move too much closer. “He’s not talking to you or anything, right?”

Stiles frowned at the question, his eyes squinting as if he was trying to focus on a distracting sense. “He’s sure as hell trying. My head hurts. This is not a good place for me to be, man...”

“Yeah, no, I get it. I get it. We’re trying this, just in case, you know? Maybe it will help if he sees you’re just a kid and can’t do anything for him,” said Blair. He still waved Stiles over again. “You know what color Derek’s eyes are, right?”

Confusion bordered on offended across Stiles’ expression and Blair took it as an affirmative response. He set a cautious hand to the changeling’s forehead, experimenting to see if the clone would handle the touch. There was, again, no response. Blair let his hand rest a moment longer, waiting it out. Nothing. His nerves weren’t any calmer though. He might have a doctorate but Blair Sandburg was no doctor, and playing nurse to a supernatural being was way outside his comfort zone.

“Okay... watch his eyes, okay? See if they match Derek’s or if they glow or something. Anything. Whatever. Okay? Just hope for some physical difference...”

“Ohmygod we’re gonna die,” Stiles muttered, that time definitely loud enough that Blair knew he heard it.

“We’re not gonna die, just look, okay?” Blair asked again. He waited until he saw the nod from Stiles before he pressed a careful thumb to the changeling’s eyelid and pulled it up so Stiles could check it. The slight swearing fit from Stiles seemed to hint that he had seen through the shadows and glare of the room and saw color, so Blair backed away again.

“What’d you see?” he asked, nearly at the same time as the warden. Stiles looked confused, a puppy with his head tilted as he stared at the clone on the bed.

“His eyes were white,” Stiles said. “Like... the irises were white. No color. Black pupils, white iris. And holy shit did they respond to the light in here fast.”

Blair nodded, processing. “Well... I guess that makes sense-“

His line of thought derailed entirely when the clone reached out and caught Stiles by the wrist, not unlike what Blair had done minutes earlier. Stiles let out a startled yelp and tried to pull away, but the clone was somehow strong enough to hang on. Miranda and the guard they had brought in with them backed off to the walls, eyes wide. Blair stared, stupid, at a loss for ideas; his mind decided to replay an old movie scene of an alien invasion and the horror story of alien tentacles tossing a doctor in a lab coat around the lab like a puppet. _Super_ helpful.

Just when Sandburg moved to start prying at the changeling's fingers, Stiles’ arm started glowing. Silver-white light bent off around his arms, momentarily making them disappear. They didn’t really disappear, all pieces of him were still attached, but the optical illusion rolled across. The changeling didn’t let go, just convulsed a few times and arched off the bed a few inches. Stiles managed to pry his hand free and stumbled away, toward the door. Miranda and the guard still blocked it otherwise he would have been outside. Blair backed off with him, attention torn between the once again dormant changeling and Stiles’ arms.

“Are you okay, man?” he asked quickly. “What’d he do?”

Slightly shocky, Stiles just shook his head. He hugged his arm to his chest, protecting the wrist that had been grabbed by the clone.

“I wanna go-”

“Put him next door with Hale,” Miranda barked at the guard. She snapped her fingers at Blair. “Sandburg! Help me with this one. Make sure he's okay.”

“Him?!” Blair thought it was rather obvious that the changeling was fine. “Did you see how much _power_ he just put out there? He _attacked_ Stiles-”

“Stiles is fine. Help. Me. Now.”

And, once again, as Stiles was hustled out of the room, Blair was swallowing back fear and testing the clone’s pulse. It was stronger now, not racing like Blair’s was. The clone seemed warmer to the touch, not the sickly, clammy cold that he had been earlier and now almost human. It was odd; Blair expected the attack would have drained it, not energized it.

“He’s fine,” Sandburg reported. Miranda lurked just out of the clone’s easy reach.

“You’re sure?” she asked. At Blair’s nod, she looked to the returning guard. “Make sure that room is cleared on the schedule. Those two stay where they are until we sort this out.”

“Woah-wait- _no_ -way!”

Miranda turned on Blair’s protest and met him square on, eye to eye and unyielding. “Yes. Your pet project there has managed to bring this creature online. Just by _existing_. Now, that’s something that nobody has been able to do in over thirty years. So I don’t care if he gets claustrophobic, or he gets migraines, or he breaks out in _hives_. He stays where we can work with him.”

“Fine, but nobody but _me_ goes near them,” returned Blair. “I’ve seen the files up here, Miranda. Falwell already tried to kill Derek. If you’re gonna keep Stiles this close to it, you have to keep Derek safe. You give this thing the slightest opportunity and it takes over. If Stiles gets angry and loses it, or he gets scared, your changeling could jump ship and you won’t know it.”

“I just want him nearby. Proximity seems to work,” Miranda said, dismissive. “Nobody needs to do so much as talk to him. Do you think it’s draining him? Is that what just happened?”

Blair waved toward the other cell, where he could see Stiles and Derek discussing what had happened. They were probably having a much different conversation however. “I don’t know unless I talk to him. You and I saw the attack but _he_ felt it.”

“So we put him on observation. See if there’s any changes,” said Miranda. The woman was hardly paying attention to Blair now, too busy scheming out how to get more answers. She was the warden, though, not a doctor. Her interest made no sense and her approach was clumsy.

“I told you, it’s the _environment_ that’s the problem,” said Blair. “There’s nothing natural here. If we take it even just a hundred yards away from this building you'll see improvement. It has nothing to do with Stiles, okay? He’s just a kid, he can’t fix it. You leave it here, it will go nuclear before it wakes up.”

Miranda shook her head. “Then have Stiles wake it up.”

“Stiles can't. If the changeling gets in his head, like the nogitsune could, then you have some very big problems. We have no way to know what the nogitsune left behind as far as this stuff goes. What we just saw could be just the tip of the iceberg here. With some of the legends from the area your file on this guy says he’s from... he could be hundreds of years old, could be fae with some ancient origins, okay? You could essentially revive an Aos Si inside a... a spark like that, which could give it enough form and energy to level half the state. After what you showed me happened with the nogitsune in Beacon Hills, Stiles should not be near this thing at all, but definitely never without Derek. Got it?”

“Fine. _They_ stay in the ward.”

At that point, Blair was certain the woman wasn’t even listening to him. He did not want his friends in the ward, how was this hard for her? “No way!”

Waving a hand to dismiss him, Miranda moved to the door to leave. “Get me my changeling and you can have your _spark_ back.”

“What’s the story here, Miranda?” Blair asked, letting his confusion at her behavior get the better of him. He expected her to ignore him, tell him it wasn’t her business like everything else he ever asked her, but she was not acting normal. “Why the hell do you care about this thing? You don’t bother with any of the other patients, and you’ve got a few really crazy bizarre cases here to choose from-”

“None of _them_ are the embodiment of pure energy in human form,” Miranda shot back. “If we could find the origins of something like this, something that can change _elements_ at will - not just shape, but actual physical composition - then we tilt known science on its axis. And this- this is _damn_ close.”

She had a point; it was, in that sense, exciting to think about and amazing to be involved in. There wasn’t a single day at the Sanctuary, after a month into his tenure there, that Blair hadn’t felt some small hint of that thrill just because of the known unexplained and supernatural quantities surrounding the people hidden in the prison. They were surrounded by old-world magic and their job was to help science make it make sense, and there would never be any job cooler than that. It was like hacking a miracle.

But that scientific excitement was dampened by the knowledge that it was a prison, and people were unnecessarily hurt by it, and that was no different with the changeling. Maybe it had stolen Derek’s face, but it hadn’t stolen _Derek_ , and it had spent far too long being tortured.

Like with Falwell and the other doctors Blair had been reading up on lately, Miranda’s determination and focus worried him. While Blair was concerned at the lack of justice, about how to make things right by those who the Sanctuary hurt, the people at the top were worried about their bottom line. They focused on grants and paychecks and the clinical reports and journal papers to cement their names in history. It was a hollow vanity in the prison. It was a blacksite, none of the research could ever be proven and published, so it was all for a personal glory. For _power_. Science was amazing but Blair was still too empathetic for his own good in a place like the Sanctuary.

Maybe he was just too _human_.

 

****

 

The argument between Blair and the warden continued out into the hall. Before that, Stiles could hardly see past the reflective glass walls that made up the cells, but he could hear about every third word. Things got a lot clearer when they moved it to the hall. Derek leaned against the glass, arms crossed as he watched Stiles, silent but paranoid.

“Warden says we aren’t leaving the Ward now,” Stiles reported. Derek nodded at him, not looking very surprised.

“You lit up like a Christmas tree. I kinda figured,” said Derek. Stiles was still shaken by the events in the other cell and didn’t need the reminder.

“It tried to get in my head, okay? It caught my hand and asked for help. Except nobody else could hear it ‘cause it was in my head. That was not normal and it was not okay and I freaked out,” said Stiles. He still watched and listened as Blair and the warden stood outside, catching most of the conversation now. He felt pretty solid, amped up on adrenaline and nowhere near zoning. He could have pushed if he needed to but he could hear them and talk at the same time, the levels didn’t spike. Derek was paranoid about it, and that was enough of a watchdog for Stiles in that moment. Derek had his back. Derek wouldn’t let him get hurt. “We’ll be fine. Blair’s not letting her assign us to anybody.”

“Puts a definite kink in our other plans,” said Derek. Stiles was distracted and not fully processing. He was toying with the metal bands around his wrist as he tried to track Blair’s conversation through walls that he swore vibrated sound. Derek seemed more focused. “And there’s the fact that you can’t trust anybody in this place, so whatever she tells Blair is a lie.”

There was a second where Stiles thought Blair was going to open the door and talk to them,- he seemed to want to, he had stopped there and kept dragging Miranda’s attention back to them, - but the warden wasn’t having it. She kept arguing, and kept walking, and Blair trailed after her without getting into the room. The guard with Miranda waved a hand over the control panel outside the doors and suddenly the lights went out. Stiles could see into the hall easier then, but the hall was empty. There was nothing to see.

“Shit.”

Derek moved away from the glass wall, nodding his head in agreement. And he caught Stiles by the forearm and pulled him away from the doors to the center of the room at the back.

“Stay back and stay quiet and maybe they’ll forget we’re here,” said Derek.

“Dinner would be a good time to be remembered,” replied Stiles. Derek shook his head as he settled down on the floor.

“There’s a faucet in the bathroom closet. That’s the only water I’ll trust. I’m not eating anything that Blair doesn’t bring in for us himself.”

Stiles looked around the cell. There wasn’t much in terms of furniture, just a bed and a couple of heavy, well-padded chairs. There was nothing to distract his mind from the day’s chaos, and he was anxious. Derek’s resignation and guardedness wasn’t hopeful, either. More than that, though, Stiles was tired and afraid to sleep. Derek couldn’t keep anybody from hijacking his brain if he slept.

 

***

 

The last thing Blair wanted to do that day was leave. He had been at the Sanctuary nearly fifteen hours and it took Miranda threatening to have him escorted from the building for him to actually leave. They had argued enough about Stiles and the changeling that there was a good chance the woman wouldn’t have let him back in the building ever if she’d had him forcibly removed under guard. So he went home. At the truck, Blair saw that he had missed a dozen calls from a couple of cell numbers that he didn't know but he didn’t try calling them back. It was late and he was tired and he didn’t want to deal with anyone else’s shit for at least eight hours.

The drive home was uneventful until the last stoplight before his parking lot. Then his phone rang and he reached for it, blind as he kept his eyes on the road.

“Jim?” he asked, hopeful. It wasn’t like Miranda would let him go visit the yard without Stiles and Derek to justify it, so Hale pack was in the dark on their missing members.

“Not Jim,” came a voice that was decidedly not Jim’s. It was young, female, and oddly familiar. “Whoever that is. Not him.”

“Okay... are you sure you have the right number?”

“Fairly confident. I’ve been calling it all day,” the young woman said, sounding mildly annoyed. “I’m looking for Blair Sandburg and that’s you, right?”

“Usually,” Blair replied. He scrubbed at his face, scrubbing his tired mind for a name so he didn’t have to ask and feel like a jerk for one more thing that day. “Uh, look, it’s not a great-”

“Oh, you have no idea. This is a terrible day. Are Stiles and Derek at least okay?”

That clue narrowed it down and the foggy memory haze of the day finally lifted enough to remember her.

“Not exactly- Lydia?”

“Why weren’t you answering your phone? I thought you were a professor or something? Did they find you?”

There was a lot going on in the return fire question, and Blair figured the one positive thing about that was that he had correctly narrowed down the caller’s identity. It just so happened the caller ended on a very negative note. “What do you mean, did they find me? Who is looking for me? Don’t say Scott’s dad-”

“No. Worse,” Lydia said. Blair stopped in the sidewalk, straining to hear over the sudden silence on the phone.

“What? What happened? Lydia? Is everyone okay down there?” he asked.

“That’s the thing... I’m in Cascade. You know that, uh... well, that project you started with us down there and then stopped because it wouldn’t work?”

“Yes. And it is dangerous. And I know really well that it won't work. I told Stiles’ dad it won’t work. I work there now and can explicitly confirm that the project really won’t work-“

“I know, that’s what he told us. But... well, we had enough information so we didn’t give up. And we came up to Cascade to tell the Sunrise Patriots where Kincaid is. They’ve broken him out of prison a hundred times before so this should be a cakewalk-”

Blair stood on the sidewalk not far from the lobby of his building, the glare of the Chinese food diner’s neon OPEN sign blinking against his face. For long seconds it seemed like his brain just shut down, from exhaustion, exasperation, and anger. That was the most boneheaded thing he had ever heard and Lydia was somehow one of the smartest kids he had ever met. It finally got to him.

“No! No, this is the opposite of a cakewalk! Lydia! Are you shitting me- how could you think this was a good idea- did you talk to the sheriff? Didn’t he tell you it was a stupid idea? What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking there had to be something we could do. And when I talked to the sheriff, he didn’t like it but he didn’t say we couldn’t try it,” said Lydia. Blair looked around the block. It was a busy urban street at eleven o’clock at night. There had to be an open liquor store somewhere.

“Okay. Well, now that I know everyone out there in the universe is _actually_ trying to _kill_ me - thanks for that, by the way - I guess the important question now is what the hell did you mean asking if they found me?”

“The guy behind the Patriots found out you were involved and bailed on our meeting. We haven’t been able to find him,” Lydia said. “I mean, given who these guys are... you probably shouldn’t go home.”

Blair stopped again and stared at the glass door entrance to the lobby of his apartment building. It was a handful of condos, side by side with storefronts, a nice and small and public community.

“Oh for fuckssake. Are you kidding me?” he asked the glass. It was warm and welcoming inside, looked normal, no police tape or other warnings of clandestine criminal activity. He turned his back on the door and started walking back toward the truck.

“Fine. Then tell me where you are. Because we need to have a chat about this scheme of yours and it _cannot_ be over the phone.”

 

******


	16. Chapter 16

The knock on the door was expected, and yet still met with suspicion. Allison looked to her father and silently agreed to let him answer it. Neither of them had ever met Blair Sandburg, knew him only by Lydia’s description of him, and that wasn’t entirely flattering. They didn’t know what to expect. For some reason, Allison wasn’t expecting the long haired man in the jean jacket to look so normal. He didn’t look like some evil monster-doctor, didn’t look like a Fed in a cheap suit, and he didn’t exactly fit the aged-professor look, either. And he seemed absolutely run down and ragged as he stood at the hotel room door, one hand holding a backpack strap up over his shoulder.

“Who’re you?” Blair asked. “Where’s Lydia?”

“Right here,” said Allison, speaking up before Lydia could. Her friend sat just out of sight of the door and Allison was feeling protective. Blair looked around Chris at her and his face showed genuine surprise, even concern.

“You, also, are not Lydia-”

Lydia rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. “I’m right here. She just told you,” she said. The man at the door hesitated before stepping inside when Chris waved him in. Lydia moved to stand at Allison’s shoulder and made the introductions, but Allison noticed her dad wasn’t cutting the man any breaks; he had his gun in his left hand still as he and Blair made otherwise polite greetings. Blair noticed. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and showed off a detective’s badge.

“Don’t use that on me, alright? It’s, like, super illegal and won’t make you any friends if you’re one of the good guys,” Blair said.

“He’s already met the bad guys,” Allison said. “They didn’t like any of us much.”

“Yeah, so what about the bad guys?” Blair asked. His attention turned to Lydia. “That sounds like exactly why I’m here. I would love to know what you really did that I can’t go home. Because there is no way you actually went to one of the nation’s most insidious terrorist groups to ask them about a jailbreak. That’s just...unreal.”

“Well... we did. So it is real. But it’s gotta be easier to handle than werewolves, right?” There was a false cheer and far too much innocence for Lydia to have been serious. She shrugged it off as Blair gaped. He started to drop his bag and instead moved over to the nearest chair to have a rest and keep from falling down.

“I cannot- how did you think- Wait, _did_ you? What - I... _wow_.”

The man seemed a little lost and Lydia lost some of the flippant flat expression, worry tugging at her lips as she watched Blair. Allison knew her friend and she knew that was as close to guilt as Lydia would get for causing chaos for a stranger.

“It seemed like the only option,” Lydia said after a moment. “We had put all that work into it, we thought it could pay off if we got it to the people with the right resources.”

Blair scrubbed at his face and took a deep breath, didn’t rage or show any anger at all. Just a resigned shock. Then he finally looked back up at them. “So did you? Did they get the information? The plans and everything?”

Lydia bit her lip, shook her head. “No. They went to look for you instead. So no, it didn’t work,” she said.

Then, to Allison’s absolute shock, she heard her friend say two sentences she would have sworn Lydia Martin would never say to anyone.

“You were right. And I’m sorry.”

The admission didn’t seem to hit anyone else as hard as it hit Allison. It was an odd space to find herself in, at once feeling absolutely sure she was in the right place, at the right time, to help her friends because they were in the right, but to also suddenly realize how badly she had, until that point, misjudged the situation. Until that moment, the willful and proud Lydia had been the source of Allison’s faith in their mission. Even after things went sideways with the Patriots that afternoon, Allison had thought they would work something out. It would work out, because Lydia had a plan, and her friend wouldn’t gamble on something so serious. It was hard to align confidence in a successful plan with the actual apology that had come from Lydia instead.

But on the heels of that shock was something else and Allison caught herself before she smiled, looked down at her shoes to make sure it stayed off her face. Her best friend the banshee had never before, in her presence anyway, admitted to something so _human_ as being so badly wrong. In the months that Allison had been gone, since her death and her waking up to a very harsh, very real world, she had been forced to grow up, to see things differently. Beacon Hills didn’t seem to have changed much, but Allison had. And now she saw that even her friends had grown up somehow. Because even though Lydia had just admitted to being wrong, the expression on her face still said that she hadn’t given up.

In the chair not far away, Blair slowly beat the back of his head against the wall, a soft, repetitive _thump_ to emphasize that he apparently had. He muttered to himself.. “Shit... I gotta call Simon. Get somebody to watch my place... crap crap...”

And, of course, Blair didn’t even have chance to reach for his phone before the chaos hit again. Another knock on the door, one they weren’t expecting, and Allison and her father both looked to Blair with suspicion.

“Did you invite anyone along?” Chris asked. Blair shook his head, his attention already on the windows like he was looking for a way out.

“My only backup is in prison, man. I didn’t call anybody.”

As Chris opened the door, Allison only a few steps behind him and the both of them holding their weapons in their hands, the connecting door to Lydia and Allison’s room opened up. It effectively trapped them between two open doors. Allison put her back to her father’s shoulder as she raised her knife. There wasn’t much room in the short hallway with doors taking up the usual space. And it had the tactical advantage of putting a physical barrier between the weapons and the bad guys, with the added perk of hiding Lydia and Blair across the room and out of reach.

Lydia yelped from surprise but didn’t scream. Sandburg sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling, his mouth moving like he was having a silent debate with the cosmos. A man with a gun covered them, while Allison and Chris had three weapons aimed at them. They were fish in a barrel. Allison tucked her knife back in the sheath at her belt and held her hands up.

“That’s better. Now just put the gun away and let’s have a nice and peaceful chat,” said the man in the atrocious flannel jacket behind Allison. He closed the center door to wave them out of the trapped space and Allison edged along the wall to stay away. Lydia reached out and caught her arm, tugged her into her side as she stared at the men, wide eyed and worried. Chris moved back enough to hold the door open, making a mockery of polite custom by inviting the men into the room.

“Sure. Let’s make a party out of it,” he said. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who the men were. They had spoken to all of them that afternoon, hours earlier. Toby’s men from the Patriots. And just as Chris was about to close the door behind the three strangers, it shoved open again. Toby seemed annoyed that he had dawdled enough to ruin his own entrance by having a door closed in his face. Allison saw the smug grin on her father’s face and rolled her eyes. He had their number and was testing; they were a bunch of idiots with guns, not monsters, and Chris wasn’t that easily intimidated by a brute force entry.

Toby sauntered into the room, hat in hand. He acknowledged Allison and Lydia barely before spotting Blair, still in the chair. The man was resigned and annoyed but just as much confused. There was no recognition on his face when Toby addressed him. He looked to Lydia instead, like she could explain. Toby didn’t let her.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Toby asked. “It was over fifteen years ago. And it wasn’t as important to you and your partner back then. You interviewed my parents and I, the first time Garrett Kincaid escaped from federal custody. Seemed to think maybe my mother might know something about it.”

The realization seemed to land and Blair nodded. “Yeah. I kinda remember. I mean, yeah, it was a long time ago. Your mom lied to my partner about it, so I guess we were on the right track.”

“Yes and no. She knew Kincaid, sure, but she hadn’t seen him in years. But after that, we kept tabs as best we could. If the cops were going to go messing with our business, we might as well have answers for them, right? And then we lost him the last time he went away, and I hear you’re the one with the answers this time,” said Toby. Lydia tightened her grasp on Allison’s wrist, guilty expression on her face.

“That’s funny. We told you that we had the information,” Allison spoke up, mostly in defense of her friend. “You weren’t that interested.”

Toby glanced over at her. “I don’t trust a gift horse. I find my own way.”

“It wasn’t a gift. We expect to be paid,” said Allison. Toby seemed amused. He looked to Blair again, chuckled quietly.

“You didn’t tell your young friends how the Sunrise Patriots do business, did you?”

 

****

 

What was the damn point in giving them a cell phone if Blair wasn’t going to answer his? Jim scowled and ended the call rather than leave a voicemail. He knew better than to leave his voice anywhere the Sanctuary might eavesdrop. Just having the cellphone in the yard seemed like a risk, but at the moment Jim was the only one who felt that way. Derek and Stiles had been gone twelve hours and their mothers were... being mothers.

“It went straight to voicemail,” Jim reported. “Again. So I don’t know what’s going on up there.”

Claudia wrung her hands and leaned back against a tree trunk like she needed support. “I wish I had Stiles’ gift. I would love to hear what’s going on up there.”

In an effort at trying to be understanding, Jim refrained from judging her sanity for it too harshly. “Trust me, you don’t want to be able to hear that place. It’s mechanical, and it hurts. Otherwise all you hear is screaming, and that hurts too. And I am not volunteering to go listen anyway, so don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” said Talia, her tone short. She was angry and Jim couldn’t wait to give her some space. The cartoon-version of her in his head had turned red in the face and steam was coming out her ears, like her brain was rattling around and waiting to explode. Jim didn’t want to be near the fallout zone.

“Look, we’ve all been here before,” he said, quiet and careful with a fragile subject. “We have no way to get out and check on them. We can’t help them from here. We can’t even reach Sandburg. So I’m going to suggest we call it a day and try to get some shut-eye, alright? Start fresh on the worrying tomorrow.”

Cloudy crossed her arms and sagged back against her post, not arguing but not exactly warming to the idea, either. Talia shook her head in a firm and decisive negative.

“Give me the phone. I’ll keep trying Blair,” she said. Jim shook his head.

“No more trying,” he said. “We have to make sure it has battery life when Blair does get back to us. And he will, okay? He’s not going to leave everybody hanging.”

“Give it.” The lady werewolf held out her hand, flashed red eyes at him like she was trying to be scary. Which, honestly, it was perfectly scary, but Jim didn’t take well to blatant scare tactics, either. He had been around her too long now to deal with that kind of bullshit. He dropped the phone in his pocket and trapped it there under his hand.

“Forget it,” he told her. Talia started to react, spoiling for an excuse to fight, but Claudia tugged at her sleeve.

“He’s right. What if Blair doesn’t make it down here tomorrow? We can’t charge the phone. We can’t call him again tonight,” she reasoned.

“But Derek’s up there again, and the last time-” Talia’s argument was petulant and annoying and struck Jim exactly wrong. He crossed his arms and stood a little taller. He needed to leave and not stick around to get pissed off, too. Both he and Talia had red tempers and short fuses on even the best of days, and with both of his young charges locked away in the Ward, Jim didn’t consider the day any kind of a win.

“This time he’s got Stiles, so it won’t happen again,” Claudia said. Talia didn’t look like she believed her friend’s reasoning.

“And he’s got _Blair_ ,” Jim pointed out. “ It doesn’t matter if you don’t trust him enough to tell them what happened. He’s going to take care of the kids. They’ll make it.”

“Don’t start with me right now, Ellison.” It almost sounded like Talia growled on his name. Jim forced himself to shrug it off but he kept his guard up. Cloudy stood up and moved to catch her friend by the arm, just enough to keep her grounded and sane. No flying off the handle, no attacking friends, just a simple reminder.

“No, he’s right, Talia. Don’t _you_ start,” she said. “He’s got little enough reason to trust us now. Don’t make it worse. Please.”

“I don’t have to-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Jim interrupted the argument before it could get started. He unfolded just enough to point over his shoulder. “I’m going to bed. Try to sleep. I’ll see you in the daylight.”

“Wait,” said Claudia. She was usually the peacekeeper between Jim and Talia’s moods, but there was no question to her tone this time, no placating. It was an order, on par with Talia’s usual treatment. And it was aimed at Talia just as much as Jim. He waited, curious despite himself.

“What?” Jim asked.

“Look. I get that you’re mad about the-“

“I literally just said we’re not talking about it,” Jim pointed out. “Now is not the time.”

“Maybe not, but it’s a bad time for keeping secrets, too,” said Cloudy. “It’s us versus them, and we can’t afford this division. You’re a fool if you think the boys haven’t noticed how you two have been lately. The pack’s seen it. It’s just going to get worse.”

Jim shrugged it off, not interested in listening. “Not something I can do anything about.”

“Then shut up and listen,” Claudia said. “I’m offering an olive branch so just hear me out.”

It was annoyingly amusing when Claudia found her voice enough to get sassy. Jim nodded and didn’t argue. Claudia crossed her arms and stared at Talia. She was her usual stubborn and refused to look at either of them, so whatever truce Claudia was working for would only be a patch job on the larger issue.

“Fine,” Jim said. “But if it involves trusting _Sam_ over here, it better be one helluva good sized branch.”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected when Claudia balled a fist and dragged her whole arm into a half hearted warning punch across his chest for the sass. It was safer when Cloudy fought Talia’s battles for her and claws didn’t get involved. Jim brushed off the harmless sting and tolerated it as she shoved his arm to steer him toward the entrance to the den.

“It’s big enough to shove a body through, how's that?” she returned. And she certainly had his attention.

Claudia couldn’t see in the dark as well as Jim and Talia could, so once they were in the dense safety of the den, she snagged a torch off the wall. With a snap of her fingers, the bundle of cloth and sticks and herbs at the end of the cleverly rigged metal handle lit up. It reflected off the polished surface. The pack had done a lot of creative things with the remnants of the burned out cell block when they put together their dug-out den.

It wasn’t a place Jim explored very often, though, and nobody clarified for him exactly what they wanted him to see. Claudia and her torch walked ahead to lead the way and Jim grudgingly allowed the moody Talia to follow behind him. It was supposed to be a peace offering, And it was obviously Claudia’s idea, so the woman wouldn’t stab her best friend in the back by turning on Jim now. He was safe and he trusted that, even if he didn’t trust the women.

It sunk in after a few minutes, however, that they were still moving through tunnels. Narrow, close, and recently dug tunnels. There was a pitch to the trail, indicating that they moved down into the ground further, not just around the tree roots on the hill of the yard. It felt curiously far from where they started out.

“Where does this go?” he asked. Claudia glanced back at him, like maybe he was catching on finally.

“You’ll see,” was all she said.

Jim ducked as the tunnel got shorter. For maybe another twenty yards, the travel was tight. Then it opened up. Claudia stepped out into what was almost like a room, complete with a ten foot height clearance. She lit another torch and Jim hung back to let his eyes adjust. The room got wider and could have held almost the whole pack.

“We’re standing below the parking structure,” Cloudy said. She walked across the area to what served as the far wall: the outside curve of a cement sewer pipe. There was a charcoal-marked circle in the middle of the pipe, maybe three-feet in diameter, that had been scratched and clawed and burned at. “Based on those plans Stiles has been hoarding for the last few weeks, this is how we get out of this place. Through this pipe, into the parking structure, and out.”

“If we do it right, no one will even notice we’re gone,” added Talia. She lurked but didn’t crowd Jim’s space in the close quarters. And she didn’t seem angry that he knew about their escape plan.

“You’re just going to leave everyone?” Jim asked, too shocked to be diplomatic about the accusation. “Who knows about this?”

“Everyone,” said Claudia. “At least, everyone we can trust. Just the pack.”

“What about Derek and Stiles?” Jim was somewhere around angry. “I’ve been chasing them off this idea for weeks and nobody said anything.”

“We can’t tell them,” said Talia. “You’ve seen how Stiles is. The plans we used are his. This is technically his baby. When he gets an idea, when he gets angry or cornered, his first line of defense is to talk. And he talks to Blair, who can’t lie his way out of a paper bag. And Blair works here. It’s too much of a risk to tell either of them.”

“What about Derek?”

That amused Claudia. “Telling Derek would mean Stiles finds out. The Hales are notoriously bad at lying, as a rule.”

Jim walked up to the pipe wall, set his hand over scratches that looked rather like claw marks. He pushed out on his hearing, searching for signs of whatever was on the other side of the cement. It sounded empty, just the echoes of air in an empty space, and the slow drip of water. As he listened, he felt the slightest vibration of sound roll through the sewer beyond as above them a car or truck, some kind of vehicle, drove near and the noise of the engine rattled along the pipe. Then it was gone. Actual freedom waited on the other side of a cement wall.

Jim looked to the women again. “How do we break through?”

“Slowly,” said Talia. She moved to the pipe, too, and dragged sharp claws across the mess in the circle on the side. Claudia handed the torch to Jim and stepped away.

“Watch your eyes,” was the only warning before her arms started to glow white from fingertip to elbow. She pressed her hands to the pipe and let the unnatural glow spill across it like liquified mercury. Talia dug claws across the edge of it, like maybe the burning liquid could be embedded into the pipe somehow, like it could eat at the cement and help the process.

“What the hell-”

“We don’t know,” said Claudia. “But it seems to be helping. It’s just energy, and it transfers as heat, and the pipe gives a little.”

“It’s the best we can do without drills and sledgehammers,” added Talia. “It drains Cloudy pretty badly, so she can’t work on it for very long at a time. The whole thing is a slow process. It took the entire pack weeks to get this far.”

She was right, it was slow. And there was no way they would have been able to keep Stiles quiet about it in the meantime if he had known. The secrets had their purpose, whether Jim wanted to agree with them or not.

*****


	17. Chapter 17

A loud, insistent buzzing kept Stiles from actually managing to sleep in Ward Six. He couldn’t place the source of it, or any of a dozen other odd sounds, and it reminded him of the strange noise he could sometimes hear out in the yard. What he came to realize, sitting surrounded by the sounds of the Ward, was that the sound that he heard from the lower levels, that Jim refused to talk about, was actually the combination of all the sounds within the Ward. It kept to a low-level tone for the most part, but when one machine or another would kick on or off, the pitch would change the whole thing. All Stiles knew for certain was that even the walls made noise in this part of the Ward and it made his skin crawl.

Derek had been mostly non-verbal since the lights went out. The only scent in the room, aside from antiseptic and cold, was the one Stiles had come to associate very directly to fear. It came from Derek, so Stiles stayed alert. They were both scared, but there was only one werewolf in the room, and it wasn’t safe to push Derek when he was cornered. The safest thing was to let him do his thing, stay out of his way and make sure he knew who was in the room and where.

Stiles didn’t want to trust the bed in the room - because Derek made it clear that he didn’t - so he stole the pillow from it and curled into a corner with the pillow as a weak effort to dampen the noise. Derek acted like he didn’t trust the walls and sat in the middle of the floor, between Stiles and the door. He drew up his legs and rested his arms on his knees and just didn’t move. Stiles was too tired to be anything but amazed by it. He barely achieved a fitful doze against the wall, letting his brain sort out the noises he couldn’t get to disappear.

When voices showed up in the fog of sleep, it seemed at first that they were part of dreams. They were muffled and static, unrecognized as even English until Stiles pulled out of sleep a little.

“These are Sandburg’s, so don’t expect much interesting reading there,” said one voice.

“I know that name. Who is Sandburg?” asked the other.

“A researcher. He was some kind of child-genius in his youth but I’ve seen nothing impressive from the adult,” said the first man. “If you know the name, it’s probably from years ago. He did a hoax of a dissertation and the media crucified him.”

“Hmm. If it was a hoax, I doubt he would have projects here,” pointed out the other. Stiles cracked open his eyelids a little, confused enough by the talk to look for the source. He still saw only Derek in the dark room. Outside the thick reflective windows of their cell, he saw two men in lab coats standing in front of the data pad over the card-key lock. One stood tall and seemed about as old as his dad. The other was older, not small exactly, but held himself more fragile from age. That one kept tapping the wall where Stiles guessed the data pad should be.

“In fact,” the old one said, “I would be inclined to presume that the subject of his dissertation was declared a hoax because it was likely too real for media consumption. Small minds, Dr. Falwell. They don’t handle the unknown very well and will sooner label it fake than worth examination.”

“I’ve looked over the subject of his dissertation myself. There was nothing significant about the specimen at all. He could hear and see very well for his age, with no physical explanation as to why. I didn’t consider him impressive,” said Falwell. The man’s name clicked with Stiles then.

“Derek!” he said, his voice a hiss to stay quiet but still be heard in case the slumped form of his friend meant Derek was asleep. “It’s Falwell! Get away from the door!”

Derek’s shoulders shifted and tensed, and he seemed to look over at the doors, but he didn’t show any other signs of being awake.

“I’ve heard of the Sentinel project,” the frail stranger continued outside. “The US Military tried to incorporate some of the theories. From what I recall, Sandburg’s subject was too old to be pulled back into it. They used his research and found their own subjects. Or made them. But it says here, this one is young.”

“The warden’s using him to monitor changes in her Ulster project.”

Stiles bristled at the discussion. He tried to follow Derek’s lead and pretend to be asleep, but it was a hard order when he and his friends were being discussed like lab rats. And the anger fed the hate he already held toward Falwell, the only name Stiles knew of Sanctuary staffers because of the small, minor, insignificant detail that the man had nearly-successfully killed Derek. He wanted to know what to look out for if he ever saw the man around Derek again.

Careful to stay in the shadow of the corner, Stiles got to his feet and away from the tangle of the pillow. Then, keeping out of Derek’s easy reach, he moved to the window by the door. The men ignored him.

“I thought genetics was your area of expertise, Dr. Ricketts. Why would you have any interest in sensory anomalies?” Falwell asked the old man. The glass hardly muffled them from so close, though the thickness of it distorted their features somewhat.

“To replicate them, Dr. Falwell. You think far too narrow for your field. It isn’t always about explaining the unexplainable,” said Ricketts. “The more important use is containing and controlling it, making it serve a purpose.”

The lights in the room came on suddenly, leaving Stiles momentarily blinded. He curled to protect his eyes and mentally scrambled to dial down his vision. Adding to the sensory shock, the bracelets at his wrists suddenly buzzed to life. He could feel the electric pulses that he hadn’t noticed existed. Worse, the energy pulled and tightened around his wrists, dragging them together tighter than handcuffs could. If he hadn’t already held his hands close as a shield for his eyes, the force in the bracelets would have hurt. Instead, they surprised him.

“Stiles! Get back!” Derek’s order was a helpful reminder and Stiles moved away before the door opening could push him away. He stopped fighting the shock of the cuffs and straightened up, squinting in the over-bright lights of the room to see the two so-called doctors walk in. The older one wasn’t actually frail, just stood stoop shouldered. He was about Stiles’ height as he stood and faced him, eye to eye. Beyond him, a guard blocked the door, attention on Derek.

“You could knock,” Stiles informed them. Ricketts’ expression darkened but he didn’t respond. He slipped a penlight from his lapel pocket and clicked it on as he raised it to shine in Stiles’ eyes. Having just gone through that surprise, he adjusted more quickly with no pain. Just a fair amount of indignation.

“For instance, Falwell, I saw no mention of medication or stimulant controls on this one’s file,” Ricketts announced, apparently continuing his conversation with the other doctor. “And yet his systematic responses are striking. Notable reaction time and a nearly impossible muscular response from the retina. It’s comparable to an avian response perhaps. One does not blame that on a diet of vegetables and ignore the various systems responsible. I would like to get some proper readings from this one.”

“You would have to check with Miranda’s authorization codes. She locked this room down indefinitely,” Falwell said.

“I’ve no interest in the room, just the occupant,” replied Ricketts. He still watched Stiles, poked at him with the beam from the penlight in little tests. Stiles got annoyed and looked away, only to have the man grab his face and turn him back. Derek snarled, stepped forward, and the guard charged up a baton to herd him away. Stiles had his attention pulled in too many directions and felt panic make his control of his senses slip.

“Oh that is interesting,” said Ricketts, penlight nearly blinding Stiles in one eye. The light clicked off and the old man backed away. He looked from Stiles to the angry werewolf only briefly. “Physical reaction compromised by an emotional reaction. It goes deeper than a simple physiological response.”

The cold detachment was more alarming than the guard threatening Derek and Stiles stepped back. He didn’t understand exactly what was going on but he knew very clearly that this was more dangerous than sitting alone in the yard.

“I think I’ll be talking to Miranda about her projects,” said Ricketts. “I’m done here.”

“These two are Sandburg’s,” Falwell reminded him. Ricketts seemed unconcerned as he turned and left. Falwell and the guard followed and the door snugged shut behind them. The bracelets at his wrists remained locked together even after the door had closed. The lights stayed on and Stiles’ eyes stung as he tried to adjust his focus past the mirrored windows.

“Sandburg is a researcher, not a scientist. He won’t know what to do with this,” said Ricketts on the outside. “If he insists, he can be an observer. But he will ask all the wrong questions. This opportunity cannot be left to him alone.”

“Stiles?” Derek asked. He felt his own panic only after he heard Derek’s concern. The Ward had killed Derek, and he was stronger, he could heal. Stiles couldn’t even stand in the same room with one of the Ward’s doctors without panicking.

“Oh crap.”

 

*****

 

Supposedly there were two entrances to the Sanctuary. Blair had only seen one, and it was a convoluted, multi-level waste of time. Employees actually clocked in at the elevator bay on the third floor level of the parking structure that formed the back wall of one wing. What passed for a guest entrance was really just a lobby area that still used the same bank of elevators to transport people up to the top floor and the safe, peaceful view of the inner yard.

It was supposed to be a Sanctuary for the humane treatment of insane criminal patients in a modern era that didn’t believe in asylums; there were hospitals and there were prisons, and the Sanctuary tried to pass as both. They had the two wings of general population inmates, low-level violent crimes were acceptable because the prisoners were allowed to keep their own order. Others in the mix were just crazy and unpredictable and oh, maybe a few of them went crazy with the tides, but on the books there was no such thing as werewolves. The First Ward was the medical bay, safe and sound on the third level, above the general population prison wings. (Ward Six had a small corner of that level, but was otherwise an entirely different operation.) Second Ward was for the long-term medical care, coma patients or otherwise non responsive and humanoid charges. Crazies were on Third, and mostly left in cells to be forgotten. Wards Four and Five shared a level and Blair didn’t have clearance for those levels. The truly violent ones went there.

Given that Miranda thought Stiles Stilinski had killed a dozen people with invisible ninja swords when she sent him to general population, Blair didn’t want to know the Sanctuary’s definition of violent.

With the prison divided up very clearly, Blair had easily limited access. His badge got him into every ward except Four and Five, and it got him in and out of the building through the guards’ station at the top floor elevator bay. That was it. The place was designated a blacksite and no longer inspected by government code enforcement, so from the poking around Blair had done during his month at the Sanctuary, all other doors and emergency exits had been welded and plastered over. It was a firetrap waiting to happen, quite literally designed to burn all those trapped inside it in case of any structural lapse.

But according to the schematics Lydia and Danny had found of the building, there was another entrance that went directly into and out of Ward Six. Blair hadn’t found it any of the times he had been in there. It was just another one of those details about the Sanctuary that had pissed off Toby when the man found out where exactly in the building his father would be found.

It seemed that a building designed to keep a group of people locked inside was also designed to keep people out of it, and, of course, that worked against the Sunrise Patriots’ usual MO. Their only way inside would be infiltration or brute force through a single, bottle-necked port of entry. It would not be the easy cake-walk that Lydia’s blueprints promised them. It was a lot more involved than it looked like it would be on paper.

Blair had spent all night explaining that to them. And by eight AM, Toby’s crew had contacts who had solutions to at least some of the barriers he had outlined for them. They also confiscated under force Chris Argent’s rather impressive mobile arsenal, Allison Argent’s handgun, bow, and knives, and the entire person of Lydia Martin, just for “safekeeping.” Which meant that the Patriots had Chris and Allison also, because it didn’t go over well when it was decided that they needed human collateral to guarantee Blair’s cooperation.

Sandburg showed up at the Sanctuary hours late that morning with a black eye and no sleep. The guards on the top floor were surprised and concerned. Blair told them he had been jumped because he lived in downtown Cascade and nobody thought twice about it after that. Just patted him on the back in sympathy and let him pass through.

The black eye was also a fair distraction from the somewhat clumsy sleight of hand that Blair used to slip a magnetic strip under the keypad of the first check point’s passcode security system. Supposedly it was harmless, just a wireless way of hijacking the entry codes that were entered to unlock the door. How that would get the Patriots past the armed guards with the badge-reader wand, Blair didn’t know. He didn’t want to ask because the answer was likely to involve bullets and death.

To say Blair was distressed - as a cop, as a compassionate human in general - would be an understatement. But he held it together and planted the wireless sniffing devices he had been told to leave around access points so Toby’s team could monitor traffic. He needed a nap and then he could think up a better plan. The sniffing gizmos made the Patriots happy and bought Blair at least enough time to catch some sleep and then talk to Jim. Maybe not in that order though.

Blair dumped his backpack in his office and let Thackeray out of his albeit massive cage. The oversized bird sniffed at him and made an odd clicking sound, high pitched and painful, and all Blair heard was avian judgement.

“Look, man, I’m doing my best, okay?” Blair said to the thunderbird. “Everything’s fucked up and not a damn thing comes with a How-To manual.”

Thackeray scolded him in a tone that sounded like some middle-aged possession victim speaking in Tongues: deep, garbled gibberish. Blair stared at the ceiling, searching to center himself in even just a minute of meditation. The bird wasn’t going to let him sleep.

 

****

 

The lockdown was worrying in that it was unexpected. Blair hadn’t called him back, hadn’t turned on the lamp in the office, so Jim had no way to be sure it would be a safe visitor he went to meet. He took the gamble anyway, with Talia and Claudia on his heels. The rest of the pack was working on shoring up the tunnel and wearing out the cement of the drain wall under the parking structure while the three who couldn’t know about it were out of the yard. Victoria Argent had taken over supervisory duties. It was a slight relief not to have _all_ the women crowding him while the alarms and lights swirled in the block.

That tiny relief disappeared entirely the second Jim saw Blair’s face. He wanted the werewolves at his back and he wanted to charge the gas chamber that separated him from the people responsible for the bruises he could see. There was a slight growl from Talia at his shoulder as they hurried their steps to meet Blair. Claudia, confused, called after them, “What happened?”

That was a very good question.

Blair held his hands up in a bid for peace as Jim caught up to him. He brushed the shaggy curls away from Blair’s face, checking to see the size of the bruise and get a better idea of the damage. Blair tolerated it but brushed him off when Claudia caught up to them.

“We gotta talk,” Blair said, cutting off their questions very quietly. He cast an intentional glance over his shoulder at the camera over the door. Jim nodded ready agreement and stepped aside enough to make sure Blair had a clear path.

“Are you hurt?” Claudia asked as she realized why Jim and Talia had gone on alert. Blair scoffed at the innocent question but nodded.

“Pride took a harder hit. And I’m tired,” he said. Talia held up a hand toward him.

“Here. Give me your hand,” she said. Blair looked at her, surprised and confused.

“What the hell-“

“Trust her,” Claudia said. “She’ll show you.”

Jim knew the wolves could pull pain and figured that was what Talia was up to. It wasn’t his favorite solution under the circumstances but it would work as a patch until they could talk. He kept quiet as Blair obliged the women’s encouragement, watched them like a hawk to be sure it actually worked.

By the time they reached the den, Blair was moving a little easier. He was close to sleeping standing up. They cleared a pallet and he crashed into it, leaned against the wall. Jim crouched alongside, watching his friend close in the flickering light of the den. Talia called for Victoria and the woman emerged quickly from the tunnels, joining the other two in standing guard around Blair as he yawned.

“Everything is fucked up,” Blair announced. “I mean, we have problems. _Big_ , human-shaped _problems_.”

“One thing at a time, Sandburg. What happened to your face?” Jim asked.

“Lydia- Stiles’ friends went to the Sunrise Patriots. They wanted help breaking the Sanctuary, so they figured out how to do it in the loudest way possible, and they did it. The Patriots know about this place now. They want in. They want Kincaid out. And somehow my name came up,” said Blair. Jim slumped, scrubbed at his face with both hands as he realized the scope of their problems. They were lucky Blair had been allowed back in, that he was alive at all. That was probably pushing the boundaries of their luck.

“Lydia Martin did this?” Victoria asked. “The girl couldn’t possibly-“

“She wanted to make a business transaction, wanted to sell them information. But she’s never dealt with psychos like the Patriots before,” said Blair. He shook his head. “The Patriots don’t buy anything but guns and politicians. Lydia didn’t know. She didn’t know what they were doing.”

“Is she okay?” Victoria asked. Blair winced.

“Well, that’s where things get complicated. I spent all night going over everything with them. I tried to show them it’s impossible. But I mean, those assholes took over an entire police department, so for them, this place should be a candy store. I can’t convince them of anything. So they kept Lydia to make sure we didn’t cause problems. And that pissed off Chris and Allison. So long story short, the Patriots have already got their first three hostages and haven’t even stepped foot in this place yet.”

“Yet?” echoed Victoria and Claudia. Talia looked pale as she nodded.

“The Patriots make statements. Use the body count to get attention. At their height, it was how they made money,” she said. “And their former leader is here. In Ward Six.”

Blair offered up a tired smile, sarcasm showing through clearly. “The _current_ leader is Kincaid’s son. And he hates us for Kincaid disappearing to this place. So that’s _awesome_.”

Talia crouched then, braced her arms on her knees as she covered her mouth. It was apparently hitting her heavily, and Jim felt a little reassured that the woman hadn’t checked out completely while living in the Sanctuary. The threat of the outside world breaking in wasn’t a foreign concept and she still remembered her brief former life at the Cascade PD enough to know the Patriots weren’t going to be held off by a few hostages.

“We can’t stay here,” Talia said. “Do they have a timeline? Do they have a plan?”

Blair shrugged, hiding another yawn. “They want it done this week. But they want to watch the traffic in and out of this place, too. So they don’t trust the data Lydia gave them. And I work here, plus I’m a cop. They won’t tell me plans. For all I know, they’re attacking at noon or something.”

Jim nodded, frowning at the bruises on Blair’s face. “They need an inside man, otherwise he’d be dead. When they figure out how to get their guns in here, they won’t need him anymore. They won’t tell him anything.”

Head tilted, Blair rolled his eyes. “Hey man, thanks for the pep talk. I sure feel like a valued member of the team _now_.”

“What about Stiles and Derek?” Claudia asked. Blair jumped, startled by the predictable question.

“Oh shit. I didn’t check on them yet-“

“Do we get them back?” Claudia was pragmatic about it. She had been at the Sanctuary years longer than the rest of them; the resignation in her tone was hard to miss.

“How do we get them back before somebody comes for Kincaid?” Jim asked, clarifying the more important question for the woman who had all but given up. Blair blinked up at them.

“That’s on Miranda,” he said. “She promised I’m in charge of them. Falwell can’t get his hands on them. So they should be safe there, as long as Kincaid doesn’t notice.”

“Yeah, but the rest of us can’t run without those two,” said Jim. It took a moment for the words to sink in past Blair’s exhaustion.

“Wait- what do you mean?”

Jim looked to Talia, gauging the woman’s mood. She didn’t hit him with lasers or claws and there was no way to pinpoint exactly where her mood came from. Jim looked back to Blair.

“Uh. Look, Chief. There’s a few things you probably oughta know...”

Blair nodded his head slowly, attention going from face to face. “Probably. When you say it that way, I’ve got my doubts it’ll make my life any easier for the immediate future and I’m thinking somebody should just hit me in the head again so I can sleep this all off for a few hours in peace before hand.”

That gave him a rough idea on how much his friend could handle just then and Jim tried to keep it to the basics. “Look. Just for starters... Stiles had your plans of the prison-”

“Right,” said Blair, not very surprised. “And I’ll tell you the same thing I told Kincaid’s crew: We can't exactly blow a hole in the wall from the _inside_.”

“Well, we can, but it's a problem unless they keep the place in lockdown,” offered Talia. Victoria shook her head at that.

“People are used to lockdown now. They won't go inside for lockdown.”

“What, we gotta send a memo back that they’ve gotta fix a hole in the wall?” asked Jim.

Standing over them, Victoria was still a short woman. But she could get intimidating without much effort, too. She stood to her full height, crossed her arms and set her jaw. “My ability to care about the influx of supernatural creatures attacking the state of Washington is very quickly dwindling. They have my _daughter_ and my _husband_ -”

“So, what, we just... call in all the hunters and tell them it’s open-season on werewolves and mind-readers and hope they actually can tell the difference?” Blair swept a hand toward the four people gathered around him, who all looked exactly like him in a human-sense, except they wore ragtag dirty clothes and slept on blankets while he actually got to go home every night. It was a valid enough point and one Jim still hadn’t sorted out how to make peace with.

“We didn’t make this place, Blair,” said Talia, quiet. “It is not our responsibility to accommodate its flaws. It’s our responsibility to make it out of here alive.”

Blair didn’t look like he quite believed her, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t look like he had much faith in what she said, either. “Then how do we get out.”

Talia looked to Jim, like she didn’t know if Blair could be trusted. As far as Jim was concerned, he could trust Blair with his life, but that was different. He shrugged; it was up to her to decide if she trusted the guy or not, Jim wasn’t going to make her do it. Finally she looked back to Blair.

“What if we could blast out a wall?” she asked. Blair shrugged at it.

“We either blast the wall under Ward Six, or we put you lot in there first. Because that’s where the Patriots are going in. That’s the place they want. They won’t exactly lock up on their way out,” he said.

“Then get us in there,” said Claudia, with far too much irreverence for the dangers of that place. Jim shook his head, intending to knock that idea down, but Blair beat him to it.

“Miranda won’t let me,” he said. “She didn’t even want Derek and Stiles together. If I try to put the whole pack in there? Forget it. They’ll use me for spare parts first.”

Talia looked up at her women then. “So we blast.”

Jim frowned over at them, confused. Blasting the pipe had not been discussed as an option before. “Which means...”

“We riot,” Talia said. She stood up then, alongside Victoria and Claudia again. Blair stared at them, slowly processing between tired blinks like his brain was stuck in sludge.

“It is amazingly disturbing how quickly that answer came to you,” he said. Claudia smiled at him, the source of her son’s mischief suddenly quite clear. Her hands glowed with dim energy for a second, long enough to pull up a tiny buzzing white light between her thumb and forefinger. Then it absorbed into the palm of her hand like nothing had ever happened.

“How do you think that cellblock got burned out?” asked Victoria dryly. Talia stood calmly by as her seconds plotted chaos.

“Don’t piss off the lightbringers, Blair.”

 

*****


	18. Chapter 18

Daylight presented no answers. It brought instead fog in the morning and clouds and rain toward the afternoon. Allison knew the weather because she found herself locked in a glass room, watching the weather outside, with Lydia, for the entirety of it. They had their jackets, and sleeping bags, and a creaky wood floor that offered no insulation at all. Her dad had gotten jumped and knocked out the night before and they hadn’t seen him since they were loaded into SUVs and driven away from Blair Sandburg’s apartment in the city.

It was just the girls and an old lighthouse, built sometime in the sixties on private property overlooking the bay, so no tourists to notice them. Even if there were, the windows were thick, decorative glass that would obscure anyone’s view. They didn’t wobble when Allison kicked at them. A draft snuck around the hinges and through the floorboards. Their only way in or out was a hatch in the floor, latched and locked from the underside. It was cold and uncomfortable and Lydia alternated between apologizing for her -very terrible- idea on the whole, and chattering her teeth. Allison gnawed at a fingernail and tried not to think about the oddity of it all.

She had died a few months earlier, the only lasting effect of it being her banishment to Arizona with Isaac. Her head hurt off and on, distracting and annoying more than anything. It could have been stress from trying to find a place to live and be safe as she navigated between Derek’s old contacts. They were supposed to have gone to Colorado and then Nebraska and eventually to New York state... until she found out what had happened to her friends. Beacon Hills had a wide radius for trouble.

Now Allison sat in a lighthouse in Washington, in limbo. Somewhere between the present state of alive and cold, and soon to be killed as a hostage. They had massively underestimated the Sunrise Patriots.

“I mean, honestly, who even keeps a lighthouse around to lock someone up in?” Lydia huffed into her gloves, annoyed as she scowled. “It’s a _lighthouse_!”

Allison nodded her ready agreement.

“Do you think it lights up?” she asked. The center of the short room held the platform and the mirrored reflector panels that would have once been used to create the intense, rotating light used to warn ships off from the shallow water not far below. Lydia shrugged her shoulders and her coat swallowed the movement.

“Maybe. Probably not. That requires a power source. And I doubt they’ve bothered to pay the bills,” she reasoned. Allison stared at the silver-colored curved metal that still stood guard over what was really nothing more than an old, dead flashlight.

“Too bad,” she said. “We could have used it to get attention out here. I mean, if anybody knows Morse Code, it’s gonna be somebody on a shipping trawler, right?”

Lydia’s eyes went wide and she stopped breathing on her hands.

“Okay... so maybe we should try to get it working?” she said. Allison rolled her eyes.

“Lydia...”

“What else do we have to do, Allie?” Lydia asked. “You heard what he told Dr. Sandburg this morning.”

And she was right. They didn’t have anything better to do, other than think about how they were supposed to be dead in two days if Blair Sandburg didn’t start adding words other than “ _That’s impossible!_ ” to his over-educated vocabulary. On day three, Toby said Chris would be put down, and the girls each day after that. That was draining to think about. Part of Allison wanted to curl up and cry at the reminder of it. She had already lost her mom, and now ever seeing her dad again hinged on a cop figuring out how to plan a jailbreak from a supernatural blacksite.

There weren't many options. Allison didn’t have a knife, or even a toothbrush, or anything remotely useful. She had an abandoned lighthouse and a dim future.

So why the hell _not_ try to make a lighthouse lamp light up at the bay by the time the sun went down?

 

****

 

Locked up in Ward Six again, Derek couldn’t say he was surprised. He had a dismal outlook on the Sanctuary and expected that the worst that could happen would be exactly what happened. He kept away from the bed and away from the walls and tried not to yell at Stiles for it. The handcuffs remained locked after the men left the night before and Derek was at a massive disadvantage. He could only nap sitting up. Sleep was out of the question.

And then Stiles moved to sit behind him. Back to back, he offered a safe place to rest.

“You need sleep, too,” he pointed out. And he wasn’t wrong. But Derek was afraid to sleep. He leaned back enough to share space but he didn’t settle in for sleep.

“Come on, man,” Stiles insisted. “I can hear you, okay? I smell your fear and anger and I can’t tune it out. It’s not my fault, or yours, but maybe we can sleep it off. Just until Blair gets back to spring us from this place.”

Derek grunted at the outlook. “He can’t do anything about it.”

“He’s got a better shot at it than we do,” said Stiles. And that was true, Derek couldn’t ignore plain facts. He was tired, and Stiles had kindly informed him that he was afraid _apparently_ , and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell him about the stuff swirling around in his head that was adding to it. But he couldn’t find words, and even if he could, he didn’t want them overheard. He trusted Stiles, but he knew there was no chance the rooms weren’t monitored. If Blair was their only chance out of the Ward, they couldn’t risk it by talking about him. Derek set his jaw and squared his shoulders, stared at the door. He heard Stiles sigh, that frustrated, exasperated sound just before he gave up on impossible things.

“If the whole reason we’re in here is because I can see and hear better than you, I think I can take watch for twenty minutes,” Stiles pointed out. “Me _sentinel_ , you _guide_. You’re supposed to be setting a good example and shit.”

That was possibly the most hilarious reasoning ever used and Derek looked over his shoulder, catching his eye to properly shame him for it. Stiles waved it off.

“Yeah, whatever. I had to try,” he said.

“First off, nowhere in Blair’s thesis did he mention using me as some kind of moral compass or setting any kind of example. So don’t bullshit about _good examples_. I’m your boyfriend, not your father,” said Derek.

“Oh my god- did you- _why_ -” Stiles stuttered in surprise for a moment, a shade of his old theatrics in his voice. “Was that revenge for mentioning werewolf STDs that one time? _Shit_ , man. Comparisons I do _not_ need-”

“Second!” Derek talked over him, knowing and counting on the sting of added volume assaulting his ears to make Stiles shut up. “Your senses are why you need to sleep while you can. In case we need the edge and to keep you from zoning. If you’re too tired, you’ll zone. And if you zone up here, that thing across the hall can get in your head. So rest. _Please_.”

Stiles grumbled about it but he seemed to listen. He curled to one side, tucked his shoulder alongside Derek’s back, and used Derek somewhat like a pillow as they sat in the middle of the floor. He was a familiar, steady weight. And, Derek knew, Stiles was listening to his breathing, listening to his heart rate, probably listening to his blood pressure if that was really a thing he could do. (It was probably a load of crap, because _Stiles_ , but who knew.) Because Stiles was focused on him, Derek tried to relax. He shared the work of sitting up by leaning on Stiles in return, and he focused on finding calm in the hope that Stiles would stop worrying and sleep.

As it turned out, pretending to be calm for a little while - just enough for Stiles to get to sleep - actually helped. Derek dozed off not long after Stiles, catching the closest thing to sleep he had managed in twenty-four hours.

 

****

 

There wasn’t really a good opportunity to sleep out at the Hale pack burrow in the yard. It wasn’t safe out there for Blair and no one was really comfortable with him staying too long. It was frustrating for Blair, since he was trapped just like them, and he wouldn’t have minded a little acknowledgment of that, some pretend camaraderie at least, but Jim and Talia were too on-edge about it. They sniped at each other like cats and dogs, which made a certain sense to Blair, but he didn’t figure Jim would be very entertained by his humor at spirit guides in werewolf jail. He said nothing about jaguars as the wolf-pack alpha asked Jim to take Blair back to the gate at the cell block.

Jim, for his part, seemed to be waiting for Talia for something. And based on his obvious irritation, she was not accommodating. So he finally started escorting Blair toward the block.

“Okay. I gotta at least ask,” Blair said when they were away from the grove. “What the hell is going on with you two?”

“You want the list?” Jim replied. He shook his head. Blair stared at him, surprised by the anger in his friend’s tone. He nearly tripped on a basketball that went rolling by as they walked.

“ _Yes_? I mean, you two used to be friends. Back at the station- I mean, yeah, that was like twenty years ago almost, but you- hell, man, she almost let me blow my head off mixing jet fuel and you _laughed_ , so that was, I thought, your stamp of approval and everything...”

“Well, Chief, it turns out she’s a liar. She lied then and she lies now. There is no stamp of approval,” Jim said. He waved a hand, trying to close up that topic window from discussion. “She’s an _alpha_ now. More like a manipulative alpha bitch and I’m tired of watching her get her way.”

Blair looked around the yard, anxious and worried because he didn’t know who out there was Hale pack to tattle on Jim for his rebellious opinion.

“Okay... so... maybe that’s just a captivity thing, right?” he offered up, quiet. “I mean, in the wild wolf packs, there’s actually no observable alpha male or female. The whole dominance thing isn’t as important as keeping the pack unit alive and fed and safe. The structure is more on age and vitality than on dominance. So this is maybe just a... an effect from being locked up...”

Jim grumbled something that Blair didn’t quite catch but it seemed very negative. He caught Blair’s shoulder and pulled him a step closer as they moved into the cell block building and headed for the gate at the end of Jim’s block. It wasn’t the signal of a conversation over, but rather the warning that Jim was a high pressure valve about to blow a gasket. Blair kept his mouth shut and quickened his steps to keep up as Jim hurried down the hall. At his cell, Jim steered Blair inside. He stayed out of it, leaning on the bars and keeping a close eye on the doors they had just entered through.

It wasn’t a view Blair was accustomed to and it added to the overall surreal feeling of the entire exhausting day. He crossed his arms, uncomfortable and suddenly cold as he realized the view was one Jim had dealt with every day for over two years. It wasn’t fair and he wanted to apologize but he knew it was entirely irrational; the Sanctuary wasn’t his fault, and he had tried to track Jim the entire time so they had already covered that pointless territory. But he wasn’t sure how to interpret the frustration he could read off his friend, either.

“What is going on, man?” he asked. Jim cast another scowl down the hall before looking in at Blair.

“Look... I don’t know what Talia’s problem is. I don’t know how you two left things when you were kids...”

“We weren’t exactly kids, Jim,” Blair pointed out, amused. Jim shook his head, waved a hand to clear the whole topic away.

“It’s not my business, Chief. It was twenty years ago. I don’t wanna know. I’m trying- damnit. I shouldn’t say anything, except I think she’s wrong, and she’s been wrong, and she won’t fix it. You understand?” Jim seemed really conflicted about it all, but Blair didn’t know what any of it was about.

“Not really, Jim. I’m actually really confused. Like, really confused,” he said.

“Yeah, I get it,” said Jim. He took another few seconds of stalling and driving up Blair’s blood pressure. Then he tried again. “Look. I don’t know what went on. But I know you and Derek share a scent. I can’t explain it really any way other than that. To me, you two present like family. And I know you and Sam had your thing back when she was in Cascade-”

Blair stared at Jim in surprise. “That... whoa. Hold up. okay, I mean, maybe we went out for awhile. But Derek’s older than that. His file says he’s twenty two. The math doesn’t work.”

Jim shrugged at the logic. “Then I think maybe the file is wrong, because the woman is hiding this from you. She’s hiding it from Derek. I’ve been arguing with her about it for weeks. And I am not wrong on this. That kid is _family_.”

Confused more than ever, Blair moved to sit down on the bunk. That didn’t make sense. Sam - or rather, Talia- had been in Cascade for six months, and they had gone out a few times, but she left when her exchange program with the CSI lab was up.

She was just a small town sheriff’s department officer, working with the Cascade PD for training in some of the new technologies they used, new tech the department didn’t have anyone operating at the time. Small town, Northern California sheriff’s department sent her as an ambassador to bring back information to help the department, so it was something that happened a lot, really. Nothing weird, especially in the mid-nineties, back when the Internet was new and most departments didn’t have so much as an email account. And they were both outsiders to the department back then, so Blair and Talia had picked things up pretty easily.

“Oh. Crap.” The lightbulb clicked on for Blair then. Jim waited, attention split between Blair and the end of the hall.

“What crap?” he asked. Blair leaned forward on his knees, hands over his mouth as he realized maybe the math wasn’t quite so impossible.

“She came up here a few years before she worked with the CSIs at Cascade PD,” he said. “I think it was, like, 1990? I had just gotten my BA, had just come back from one of my abroad studies. Papua New Guinea, I think. _Crazy_ year. And I went to this party at one of the frats, you know? Where they get the whole neighborhood into it? She was _there_. That’s how we hit it off when she came up here to work with the lab. We’d already, well, you know. Hit it off.”

Jim listened, not looking at all surprised. “So that’s almost twenty three years back.”

“Are you shitting me-“ Blair realized he was too tired to fully process. He started shaking his head. “Nope. This is not how it goes. No way.”

“Who knows, Blair, but I heard the women talking about it weeks ago. They just didn’t want to rock the boat, since he’s in here and you’re out there,” said Jim. He waved off toward the general direction of Ward Six. “It’s a shit way to find out, but Mazel Tov, Chief. It’s a boy, and he’s all grown up.”

Blair scrubbed at his face, trying to wake up his brain. It couldn’t be possible.

“From what I’ve seen so far, the kid speaks four languages and has a pretty good handle on his Latin,” continued Jim. “And he’s pretty much the only one out here who can beat Cloudy at Chess. He’s smart enough.”

That didn’t exactly help Blair’s precarious grasp on reality at the moment and he let out a sarcastic laugh.

“Also, small detail, he can actually turn into a wolf,” Blair said quickly. “Like, an actual, four legs and fur coat wolf. I am pretty sure I am not capable of contributing to that kind of superpowered genepool.”

Jim didn’t seem impressed by the bitter denial. “I dunno. It might explain why whenever something happens to you, I end up following a wolf around until I find you. Maybe there’s more at play here than we thought. Maybe it’s not just spirit guides.”

“Yeah, I guess maybe. There are werejaguars in this place, too,” said Blair. Despite his incredulous perspective, Blair was suddenly wondering if the spirit guides that helped keep Jim’s senses on track were maybe, somehow, some latent DNA trait. Maybe sentinel genetics were somehow just a lesser evolved version of the werewolves. There was an easy joke to dig at Jim about him possibly being a neo-neanderthal on the werewolves evolutionary line, but Blair was trying to remind himself not to shoot the messenger.

There was nothing to really shoot Jim for, anyway. It was some kind of mixed communication. Talia was older than him by a few years. She had a few kids. That had nothing to do with Blair. She would have said something if Derek was his kid. There would have been a kid at her apartment when she was in Cascade, for one thing, and that would have kept Blair out of it. Or pictures, at least. Blair’s tired mind was working on overdrive, trying to remember every detail about Talia’s apartment and desk at the PD, all those years ago. It just wasn’t working very well.

He stood up then, giving up on figuring it out. It wasn’t possible, and for the sake of his sanity, he was sticking with that theory. Blair shook his head and let himself out of the cell.

“We don’t know anything, man,” Blair said. “I’ve got hearsay. And no offense, big guy, but you hear everything. So maybe this wasn’t about me. Maybe you heard something about somebody else, and it crossed with this. But this? I can’t do _anything_ about this right now.”

Jim followed after as Blair headed for the gate at the end of the hall. “I thought you should know about it. That’s all. There’s nothing anybody can do.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Blair asked. He stopped in the middle of the hall to face Jim. “Nobody can help their own selves. We’re all of us trapped in this place. And you wanna tell me I gotta maybe watch these guys kill my only kid for a _third time_? If something goes wrong, it’s on me, because I’m the one out there. It’s bad enough as it is. That can’t be my kid, Jim. Not happening. Can’t do it.”

“Sandburg, that’s not the point here...”

“What is, then? That we can’t trust Talia?” Blair asked. “Because we are _seriously_ low on options. It’s her or nobody. We need all the help we can get.”

Jim didn’t say anything, just waited Blair out. He crossed his arms, though, which was a good sign that he wasn’t listening to Blair any more than Blair wanted to listen to him just then.

“I mean, so what? My mom raised me on her own. For all I know, Naomi knew who my father was the whole time I was growing up and just didn’t like the guy. It happens, that doesn’t make her some kind of psycho, Jim,” said Blair. He was feeling defensive along with anger and knew he was venting. It wasn’t Jim’s fault. Blair shook his head and backed up a step, trying to center himself. “No way, man. I get you’re trying to help. But you’re wrong on this. We’ll sort it out when I get Stiles and Derek back down here with everybody. They’re not safe up there. I can’t be worried about this, too. Not with Kincaid and... everything.”

Jim hung back, didn't crowd as Blair adjusted. He shrugged off the dismissal, like he did everything else, because Jim and his bulldog jaw was made of teflon. “I don’t think we can trust her, or the pack. They’ll toss us under the bus if they have to, classic _us versus them_ mentality.”

Blair nodded absently. His brain helpfully offered up that it was a classic mentality because it was a regular social dynamic that tended to happen a lot in damaged social structures built by humans and animals under trauma as a self-defense mechanism, but that was definitely not something Jim would give two shits about just then. Blair scrubbed at his face, trying to figure out if he really cared about the psycho-social babble his brain reverted to for his own self-defense mechanism.

“Go get some sleep, Chief,” he heard Jim tell him. Blair took a deep breath and nodded again, turned away to go ring the doorbell at the gate camera and wait for somebody to let him into the gas chamber that led to the way out. The cell doors rolled shut a minute later, and when Blair glanced back, Jim was tucked safely back inside of his.

Blair dragged his feet all the way back up to his office. He was tired. He was too exhausted to think rationally about what Jim had tried to tell him. All of the emotions all up front and crowding him if he let it. But he didn’t have the time to get mad, or upset, or hurt, or grieve what felt very much like a loss. If he took the time and they all lost everything because of it, it would just make things worse.

One thing he knew for certain, though: Jim wouldn’t screw around with something like that. For him to have said anything, to have meddled, meant he believed it. And it was probably true.

Blair’s head hurt worse when he got back up to the office. T-bird harassed him at the door, followed him around the room, and then jumped on the corner of his desk when Blair sat down. But he went quiet and kept alert eyes on Blair, preened feathers without hissing and clicking. Blair tried to focus on an old Welsh manuscript but he ended up using it as a pillow mostly.

After a full morning spent trying not to fall asleep, hiding in his office with T-bird, Blair figured he had wasted enough time looking like he was being productive. The relief he had so briefly felt out in the yard that morning had faded an hour later. Now all he had was a crick in the neck from napping over a book at his desk and a bad outlook on life. Everything had gone to shit and he had at least five people - possibly six, possibly more, _no big deal_ \- whose lives depended on him working two very violent sides against each other without anybody being the wiser.

If he let the Patriots in the Sanctuary, he and Jim and anyone else in the way would be killed. Including maybe his grown-up kid who he’d gotten tossed in jail in the first place. A+ parenting ran in the Sandburg bloodline, evidentially.

If he kept the Patriots out, Lydia, Allison, and Chris, and not to mention his own neck, were on the line.

Also, somewhere in that mix was a changeling who was either good or bad, it wasn’t clear yet. But either way, without Blair to keep Miranda from poisoning him, even that guy was a goner. And Thackeray the T-bird scratched a beak across the back of his head to remind Blair that there was a mythical bird involved, too.

The whole scene was messing with Blair’s chi and he needed some serious meditation. And sleep. He wasn’t as young as he once was, and the all nighters and the fight just weren’t so easy to bounce away from anymore. He wasn’t going to make it until four pm, so it was a very short day. But he had to check on Stiles and Derek before he left. Make sure they were okay. He wasn’t sharp enough to engage Miranda in the battle of wits required to get them sent back to the yard, but he still had to know they were all in one piece and as non-traumatized as possible.

T-bird objected loudly to being left behind again. Blair bought him off with a slightly bruised apple from his backpack and the thunderbird grudgingly let him leave. Only barely. Blair couldn’t even argue with the bird.

When security at Ward Six asked about his eye, he sarcastically suggested Miranda decked him for sucking at the metaphysical sciences. The guard didn’t seem to see the humor but he let him through anyway. Blair tugged his backpack strap closer on his shoulder and hurried to check on Stiles and Derek.

When he got to the cell across from Miranda’s changeling, Blair found only one of his young charges.

“Oh shit. _Shit-shit-shit!_ This is the _last_ thing I need, guys!” Blair didn’t figure the universe was paying any attention at all anymore. He dropped his pack at the door and started trying to make the iPad control panel cooperate enough to open the doors.

In the middle of the floor, curled and looking like he hadn’t seen a barber in six months, Derek lay passed out. The cuffs were engaged and locked, keeping him from sprawling where he had fallen. The moment the doors were open, Blair lit into the room to try waking Derek up. He saw fangs and claws on a human and was too adrenaline-hyped to care. Werewolves had a faster metabolism, and the average tranq in the Ward arsenal was dosed to last no more than a half an hour for most of their ‘patients’ according to the digging Blair had done. That was slightly hopeful, maybe Stiles hadn’t been gone long.

“Derek! Derek, come on, man,” said Blair. The urgency in his tone matched the shoves against Derek’s chest and taps on the face as he tried to annoy him into waking up. The first twitch of the young man’s mouth around the drawn fangs had Blair backing off to a slightly safer distance. Instinct kicked in a second later and Derek coiled back like a spring, ready to pounce. Blair waved his arms.

“It’s me, man! Just me!” he said. “Which is a _problem_. Where’s Stiles?”

Derek looked a bit fuzzy headed still but the recognition was on his face. For a second he looked relieved but then he caught on. The werewolf faded away and it was Derek the human who curled up to stand on his feet. Blair pointed at the still open cell door.

“Come on. Help me find Stiles.”

Derek held his wrists out with the techno handcuffs. “Let me out.”

“I don’t know how those fucking things work, man. Otherwise you’d be out of them already,” Blair told him. “You’ve got a nose almost as good as Stiles and Jim, right? Just point us in the right direction. _No fighting_. We gotta find him.”

It didn’t take much convincing and Derek led the way. Blair kept up easy enough, their strides close to matched. They followed the corridor further down, arriving at the heavily protected room with the MRI machine and a few other boxy, huge pieces of technology that Blair had never seen before. He didn’t want to know what they were, or what they did, he just wanted to grab Stiles and get them all the hell out of the Ward. One step at a time, Blair reminded himself.

_Step one: unleash a pissed off werewolf on a lab with mad scientists and lab techs._

That was pretty easy to do, really, since Derek was ready to go, growling at the locked door and slamming his shoulder against it. The fangs were out, which was really Blair’s biggest clue that they had found Stiles. The room was protected, the only windows on it being the one on the door, and Derek blocked that from view. The walls were sealed and insulated metal, so not easy to tear through. Blair scrambled to get the keypad to recognize his credentials before Derek hurt himself.

“Stiles!” Derek shouted. “No!”

It caught Blair’s attention and he looked over, just in time to see Derek plow into him, flatten him to the ground. At the same time, he saw bright, blinding light and felt the wall beside them buckle like cardboard. The glass on the door shattered. Crashing could be heard through the wall. Derek shielded Blair from the blast, whatever it was, and then stumbled up to his feet again.

“Stiles!”

Winded from the tackle, Blair wasn’t as quick to recover, too stunned by the speed of it. Half the lights in the hall had gone out from the percussive blast and the wall around the equipment room had bent and folded. It looked like part of the door had melted from the inside as Derek pried it open. Still trying to shake the noise out of his ears, Blair hurried to follow after him. He made it inside the door and had to stop, choking on dust and the smell of melting plastic, and surprised by what he saw.

The MRI in the lab was shattered, the top blown off in pieces around the room. Some of the pieces were strewn across bodies on the floor.

“Holy shit...”

“Help...” someone said, very faint and raspy. It came from one of the two doctors that had been hit and Blair didn’t feel like getting close enough to assist. The Sanctuary had professionals who would be along shortly, given the alarms going off everywhere.

Instead, Blair looked to Derek and saw his attention was locked on Stiles. The young man was on the MRI table and, well, his arms were _glowing_ silver-white, so apparently _that_ was officially a thing now, and Blair’s mind was too shocked to come up with an easy explanation to make it go away. Miranda would kill him. Maybe they could blame the changeling...

“Is he okay?” Blair asked, moving to help get Stiles to safety. Derek growled but he had lost the fangs again. Just human. Just worried. He checked Stiles’ neck for a pulse and didn’t seem any more at ease.

“He’s zoned out. He didn’t do this,” Derek said. Blair coughed on the chemical fumes in the air and shook his head.

“Whatever. He can’t be here, man. Help me get him out-” Blair was already pulling on Stiles’ shoulders to get the unconscious body off the half-melted MRI table. Derek had limited mobility from the Ward’s security protocols but he was still stronger than Blair. With a little teamwork, they got Stiles propped up and over Derek’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry that he could work with despite handcuffs.

On their way to the door, Blair tripped in a puddle of something he didn’t want to wonder about in their rush to get back to clean air again. He hit the ground in a sprawl, more annoyed than injured. It had spun him around, slowed him down, and put him eye level with the floor, just to make him feel really useful. If Derek was caught in the halls without him, the boys were screwed and Blair would never forgive himself his usual clumsiness.

And then something caught his attention. He actually wasted precious seconds because he thought he saw daylight scattered over the floor at his hand. When Blair traced it to the source, he saw a small gash in the wall across the room. It was behind an expensive looking piece of diagnostic equipment that had been skewered by a piece of casing from the MRI. The machine had been draped in a tarp that had been blown aside by the... _whatever_ had happened. The tarp was caught on something against the wall above the hole, and it looked like underneath it glowed green letters very faintly announcing an emergency exit, despite the pile of useless machines in front of it.

An exit sign.

In the Ward.

Exactly like the schematics from Lydia and Danny had said. And of course it would be Stiles who would find that in the weirdest way possible.

Blair didn’t waste any more time getting out to Derek after that. Their collective time on earth had just gotten a few decades shorter, so they had other things to get started on.

 

****


	19. Chapter 19

The lights were out in the office. It was night time, so outside in the halls and at the front desk they had a skeleton crew. Small town sheriff’s station, so the doors were closed to the public after eleven PM, and the patrols were already out on the streets. It was quiet. It was dark. Stiles tried to relax because he was home, he woke up on his dad’s office couch again from a bad dream, but it had been a vivid one. His senses still strained to make the room around him line up with the memories of the dream.

He startled upright when the door opened. It rattled first, like it had been locked and the lock wasn’t strong enough to do its job. But in the dark, Stiles saw Derek walk in, close the door behind him. Like an actual well-mannered human, not a supernatural thug intent on his personal destruction.

For some reason he seemed taller though, his shoulders wider. It might have been because of the darkness in the office. But he looked to Stiles and smiled.

“You’re here,” Derek said. Stiles nodded, mute, still trying to process.

“Can you see?” Derek asked. Stiles nodded his head again. “And hear okay?”

Derek sat down on the couch beside him, leaned in to catch his arm. Stiles squinted and looked down; he saw the permanent marker that he had put on Derek’s hand and tried to make his paranoia calm down. Something was wrong but he couldn’t figure out exactly what. It distracted him and Stiles couldn’t focus. His senses weren’t even cooperating, because it shouldn’t have been so hard to see in the dark, and for some reason, even with Derek sitting right next to him, he was cold and couldn't turn it down. Stiles burrowed into his jacket and looked around the room in an effort to find something to focus on.

“You’re alright then?” Derek asked. Stiles nodded absently, surprised enough himself by the answer. Then the wrongness of the question got through. He looked at Derek, reassessing.

“You’re really chatty,” he said. “What’s wrong with _you_?”

“The list is long and you really don’t care,” said Derek with a smile. A really bright smile, almost joyful. It was a completely foreign expression on the face of Derek Hale.

“Oh... crap...” The realization that the man wasn’t Derek wasn’t really a surprise at that point. Stiles felt numb to it. He looked around at the illusion of his dad’s office, weighing out how badly he wanted to fight to leave it. He was safe in the office, he had a couch and stuff to do. It was better than being stuck in a locker. He didn’t really want to fight. “I can stay here, right?”

The not-Derek frowned like he was confused by something distasteful. Stiles stared at him, saw better that the thing pretending to be Derek really wasn’t him at all. For some reason, in the dark room, he had enough light to be seen, no shadows on his face. And, as Stiles watched him, the scruffy beard started to recede. Derek’s wider bone structure narrowed out, looking somehow more chiseled and almost delicate compared to the usual stubborn Neanderthal look that came with turning into a werewolf. He still looked a little like Derek, but in the way a distant relative might somehow have his face. A taller, less werewolfy relative. Stiles blinked at him, feeling like his eyes weren’t focusing.

“Well, I mean, it is _your_ brain, isn’t it? I’m just visiting, so I won’t be staying. If you would really rather stay _here_ , that’s up to you, but I don’t know why you would,” said Not-Derek.

“You hijacked my brain and put me here,” said Stiles, confused. The Not-Derek seemed genuinely horrified.

“I did _not_. You were like this when I _found_ you. You just generally aren’t _still_ when you’re in here, I've always had to wait for you to stop running around, and mostly you don’t. You plastered the windows with paper once. I don’t know that’s necessarily healthy but-”

Stiles leaned on his knees and scrubbed at his face. “I _officially_ have no idea what’s going on in my life anymore. What even...”

“ _I_ don’t know, but I assure you, it’s better than some of the alternatives,” said the Not-Derek. He caught at Stiles’ arm again, a simple tug to draw his attention back. “Which is where I am, and trust me, it is _not_ charming. So while we’ve got a moment, I’ve come to ask a favor. And when I wake up, I’ll owe you one. Sounds good?”

Stiles blinked at him again, trying to make something make sense. Around them, the safe, dark corner of his dad’s office started to lighten up. Sunlight filtered in. The Not-Derek looked around, then back to Stiles as he waved a hand at the shifting world.

“Okay. I don’t know what you’re doing here with this place, but it’s becoming somehow more like a prison and I would prefer _less_. Do you mind?”

A moment later, the walls were gone. Sunlight flooded everything and stung at his eyes, and Stiles had to raise an arm to see around it. He still sat on the couch, but all around him was an open field. Short, thorny trees cropped up in places, and close foothills covered in evergreens crowded around. He could hear a creek or a small river somewhere nearby. But despite the sun, Stiles was still cold. None of it was real. He was still stuck in his head. He looked back to the Not-Derek, suspicious.

“What do you need me for?” he asked.

“Well, that’s simple enough, isn’t it?” the man asked, once again cheerful. “You’re the lightbringer! I need the _light_. I’m so drenched in poison and filth these last few decades I can’t claw myself out. I need help from the Mother herself to get back on my feet, as it were. And you’re a direct connection, friend...”

“I’m a what, now?” asked Stiles. “I’m a lab rat and a freak show lately, so I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re a li- what? You don’t know? Really and truly?”

“You’re in my head! Look for yourself,” said Stiles. The Not-Derek held a hand up to him like he was checking Stiles’ forehead for a fever.

“That explains a _few things_ anyway,” he said.

“Look, I’ve only ever lit things up when I was scared or-”

“ _Oh_ , which reminds me. While you were in here, I took the liberty of lighting a few things up for you, since you didn’t seem like you could handle it,” the stranger said, like it was nothing at all, like he had already done Stiles a favor. “Your human husk was in danger and they were going to run it through that machine, so I had you put a stop to that while you were out.”

Stiles stared, jaw slack. “What happened?”

“They drugged you, I’m sure you noticed. And while I was looking for you here, I heard them discussing the poisons to inject in your eyes to start their various testings and I heard that god-awful machine start spinning. So I lit you up, as you said. And then I found you in here, so, I guess that’s that. It must have worked.”

“Oh god.” Stiles needed to wake up somehow suddenly, just to be certain he was alive. The Not-Derek didn’t seem concerned.

“Now let’s talk about you, hmm?” said the Not-Derek. “You, the lightbringer son of a lightbringer. Your mother is a lovely woman, but I find it much more difficult to talk to her. She is too much light. It doesn’t translate well, I think. It’s the dryad in her. You humans never quite get those old prejudices out of your blood, always have to fix things that aren’t broken when the bloodline muddles it up. But you don’t have that, what with the sidhe flavors you’ve got everywhere. How _did_ you get Banshee in your soul, my boy? You come from an old branch of tree-huggers. They don’t get along so great. Makes you an _enigma_.”

A crow swooped in suddenly, cast only a brief shadow as Stiles ducked. The bird perched on the end of the couch behind him and cawed at a rock not far in front of them. Stiles looked up to see the Not-Derek smile welcome at the bird. The man’s still slightly familiar features softened again, wrecking havoc with Stiles’ strained grasp on reality as the man shifted. Features became softer, more feminine. The crow hopped along the back of the couch toward the Not-Derek.

“I don’t want bird-shit in my _brain_ ,” Stiles announced quickly, still trying to stay out of striking range of a crow.

“Shh, shh. You’ll be fine,” said the changeling. “She’s just visiting. Checking up on us. I told you, there’s sidhe in your soul. It’s how I knew to find you. You’re positioned rather helpfully between worlds, friend. Your branches above still have roots deep below, all the life around you that you watch for is safe and secure on the other side.”

Confused, Stiles shook his head, raised a hand to wave it all off. “Look, I... really don’t know what you’re talking about. I know a banshee. I know Lydia. But she’s not a crow-”

“No, of course not. She’s sidhe, which makes her a daughter of the Morrigan. And the Morrigan protects those that are hers,” said the Not-Derek. “Your connection to the Earth Tree, the energy she has granted you to guide for those that you protect, and the way you use it to protect a sidhe, that makes you someone she can protect.”

“Okay, but I have done a really terrible job of protecting Lydia or anyone from anything, and just for the record, if I can’t even protect myself, I don’t know how anyone expects me to help anyone else,” said Stiles.

“You work with the light and you work with the dark,” said the changeling. _He_ now looked much more like a _she_. Her skin had gotten shades darker and her clothes baggy where they didn’t hug feminine curves. Stiles no longer confused her for Derek at all, which was not exactly any less confusing overall. The crow cawed up at the sky and took off again. When Stiles’ attention tracked back to the shadow of the changeling in his mind, she was standing up as though to leave.

“I need the help of the trees to get enough power in my husk to survive. I am trapped and tired of it, to be blunt. So if you could direct that energy my way, whenever possible, it will make the process go a lot faster. And then I can be gone and away and you can hide here whenever you feel like it, completely undisturbed by any other soul,” she said. The fields disappeared again, replaced by the sheriff's office in Beacon Hills, although not as dark anymore. Stiles was feeling sea sick but managed not to turn green.

“I hate to break it to you, but husk or no husk, you’re still just like the rest of us. Locked up in a jail cell designed to hold werewolves and monsters, so I don’t see what your hurry is,” Stiles told her. The dark haired, pale-skinned woman smiled brightly at him again.

“Then maybe you should power me up. Turn me on and see what happens,” she said with a sultry wink. The expression on her face then was one Stiles would have killed to have seen on Derek’s at any time in his life but he didn’t have a chance to enjoy it. She suddenly disappeared. _Poof_. Gone. Didn’t even walk through the door again. Apparently she knew her way around well enough now.

Stiles caught a sudden unignorable scent of garlic and cayenne and his uneasy stomach roiled. He dived forward off the couch, his mind still worried about getting puke off of couch cushions, and the world around him warbled out of existence. He opened his eyes to see a garbage pail hovering over tightly woven, ugly, corporate-colored, high-traffic carpet.

“Oh crap. I’m losing it...”

 

***

 

Outside in the afternoon sun, Jim went from doing push-ups to crouching for cover at the first explosion. The noise level in the yard dropped as everyone froze. And then, because humans in large numbers are nothing more than a herd of dumb animals, all hell broke loose. The humans in the Sanctuary, of course, were both human and animal, and their hybrid nature made them particularly panicky. An explosion over one half of their housing wing made them panic because they had no possible safezone to flee to when locked in a big cement box.

Swearing under his breath, Jim ran for the trees in the center of the yard. The unmistakable sound of an explosion from the general direction of Ward Six would not go unnoticed by the Hale pack matriarchy. More than that, though, the pack was going to need backup if the panicked animals decided to take refuge in Hale territory. Jim had a dedicated interest in keeping the pack’s tunnels a secret and Ward Six wasn’t going to screw that up for him, too.

Talia was out of the den when he got there, angry and distracted about guarding the den when not many stragglers had shown up near it yet.

“What happened?” she wanted to know. “Did you hear from Blair? Are they okay?”

“I don’t know,” Jim returned, jaw clenched. He showed her the cell phone screen, with its two bars of battery life and zero missed calls. He looked around among the trees for eavesdroppers from outside her pack before opening the flip-phone. “Keep watch for me. I’ll call.”

But nobody answered Blair’s ringing cell phone. The sound was probably still off. Jim made the new report to Talia just as sourfaced as the first had been. He felt a little bad thinking what was going through his mind then. Like a traitor and a coward and a man who was tired of chasing after carrots at the end of a stick, just out of reach.

“Look. If that explosion was where it sounded like, they’re gonna clamp down on the whole facility,” Jim said. He kept his voice quiet so the importance of his words couldn’t carry to anyone other than Talia. “I hate to say it, but the clock just started. If we don’t get people out ASAP, we might not get a chance. You know as well as I do, if a hole in the ground shows up on any kind of structural integrity tests they run then we’re all dead.”

Talia’s worried expression turned pale. Jim didn’t brush her off when she caught his arm and steadied herself. A moment later, she nodded her agreement with his logic. Then, once she had her moment to process between being a mother and a pack alpha, she waved him toward the den she was protecting.

“Go tell Cloudy to break the pipe. _Blair_ has the boys. We need to worry about everyone else,” she said. It was an order, but Jim figured the slowly morphing wolf trick gave the woman rank. He nodded and ducked into the mouth of the den to start tracking Claudia and Victoria.

 

*****

 

Watching Stiles puke into a trash can was the actual highlight of Derek’s day. Stiles was still breathing, and he shouldn’t be, so the very first proof of life was gladly accepted. Derek didn’t plan on _kissing_ him any time soon, but alive was alive.

He helped keep Stiles balanced on the bed he had blindly tried to jump off of in order to lose the meager contents of his stomach. He didn’t argue when Blair said he was going to go find them some food, because mostly Stiles was fighting dry heaves; it had been a long few days and they hadn’t exactly made it to the cafeteria predictably. The door locked after him and Derek hoped it stayed that way for awhile.

In the relative quiet left behind, Stiles slumped against his shoulder and Derek listened to him breathe. They were back in the cell opposite the changeling’s cell, too close to it, in Derek’s opinion. But he liked the locked door between them and the flow of nurses, techs and security teams rushing toward the lab explosion site. Stiles hung on to his arm, kept the garbage pail in sight as he quietly adjusted to being awake again, so the changeling wasn’t taking over his brain yet.

Worried what the chaos from the hallways was doing to Stiles’ senses, Derek didn’t push him to talk, only waited with him in silence. Adrenaline was still pumping, the only sound ringing in his own ears the echo of silence and the inner static of bloodrush, but Derek strived for calm. Stiles’ heart rate was still fast, breathing ragged, but he wasn’t panicking yet and Derek preferred to keep it that way. They couldn’t afford to risk another white out if Stiles was going to start exploding machines whenever he put himself under.

When the door opened up again, Blair had crackers for them, and a few bags of the kind of vending machine junk food that Derek hadn’t seen in over a month. He gave Stiles the crackers and dropped the chips and peanuts and jerky bags on the bed where Derek could reach them.

“Can you talk yet?” Blair asked Stiles. Stiles nodded distractedly as he chomped on food, but he didn’t take the hint. Sandburg noted the way Stiles had looped between Derek’s arms to hang on to him, because when added to the handcuffs it left Derek slightly unable to move, and he reached to open the bag of jerky. He handed it to Derek and tried to help Stiles settle back on the bed enough to not have to use Derek for balance.

“Just don’t eat so fast,” Blair said, “As soon as I get Miranda’s sign-off, you’re out of here. Don’t worry about it if you get sick again, somebody else can clean it up.”

Stiles accepted the advice and looked like maybe he tried to relax. That freed up Derek’s hands and he pounced on the jerky, not caring about the handcuffs slowing him down.

The warden showed up then, too, just to complicate things further.

“Blair, I need to see you,” she said, sounding thoroughly pissed off. She stayed at the door, not even one foot inside. Blair didn’t run over to join her. Instead he looked back at her, his expression unfiltered anger.

“You _don’t_ want to talk to me right now,” he told her. “I sure as hell don’t want to talk to _you_.”

The warden crossed her arms. “Fine, don’t talk, just watch surveillance video.”

“Does it show Falwell taking Stiles? Because I seem to recall telling you not to let Falwell near them, and I recall you promised no one would work with them except me. And the fact that Derek and Stiles were tranqued and separated would indicate you _lied_ , and that’s got nothing to do with me or the boys,” returned Blair. Derek didn’t offer up any support for Blair’s argument. He didn’t figure he would be listened to if he did. Sandburg seemed to have it well in hand on his own, and Derek wanted to eat while he had the chance.

The warden seemed annoyed when she finally dared risk walking into the cell. She had an iPad in her hand and held it toward Blair. “You need to explain what just happened with Stiles. Because this is not Sentinel symptomatology.”

“Stiles was tranqued,” Blair repeated. “That’s how I found Derek. So whatever happened, it wasn’t Stiles’ fault.”

The warden shoved the iPad at him again. “Just watch the damn thing!”

He took the iPad but he stood angled to keep himself between the warden and the two inmates that had so raised her ire. Derek looked on over his shoulder until Stiles surprised them both by slipping down off the bed because he wanted to see, too.

Blair didn’t block the screen and they all saw the video. Derek watched as an unconscious Stiles was strapped to the MRI table and Falwell turned on the machine. An MRI was harmless, aside from the obnoxious noise it made that would probably have wreaked havoc on Stiles’ senses if he hadn’t been passed out. Another man in the doctor-white lab coat stood at Stiles’ side, measuring out a vial of some kind of liquid into a needle. Derek didn’t recognize the man but his intent to harm was clear enough, even if the lab coat said he was working in the interests of science.

The doctor set the vial down on a cabinet and returned to Stiles, set a hand on his head as though to poke the needle at his eye, and that was when Stiles lit up. His arms turned silver-white and might as well have disappeared, and then the rest of him. The man in the lab coat was pushed up and back by a shockwave that interfered with the video. When the static lines stopped, the MRI was in pieces and there were bodies on the floor. Stiles lay on the table, asleep for all appearances.

Derek watched the playback three times, because Blair paused it and took it back. And then he paused it a last time and handed the iPad back to the warden.

“Look at the eyes,” Blair said. “You can see his eyes when he turns his head, just before his arms start to glow. They’re silver, too. And that’s what Stiles saw yesterday when we checked the changeling’s eyes.”

Stiles slumped back against the bed, looking a little like he might lose his crackers again.

“ _Stiles_ didn’t do anything,” Blair went on, more worried about the warden just then. “It’s just like the kitsune all over again. Which makes sense, doesn’t it? We call them demons or fae or whatever word you want for whatever part of the world they come from. But it’s basically the same thing in every place. A fox demon’s just a shapeshifting hitchhiker no different than an Irish changeling fae. They’ve got the same target.”

Derek heard Stiles’ heart rate go up and glanced back at him. Stiles was unusually pale and radiated heat like a fever. He nodded briefly, like he was confirming what Blair said, but he didn’t say anything. Silence from Stiles Stilinski was the most disturbing thing about the entire day.

“How do we know this is really Stiles then?” The warden wanted to know. Derek edged protectively closer to Stiles at the veiled threat.

“Two ways,” said Blair. He sounded annoyed and impatient. “First off, he passes the sniff-test. Derek would be able to smell any changes in body chemistry that would happen from somebody else taking over. Kinda like those dogs that can smell cancer? It’s why they stay together. We have no other way of scenting them without someone they know who has a heightened sense of smell and can pick up on those subtle chemistry changes.”

The warden didn’t seem happy about it but she accepted his assessment. “What’s the second way?”

The slightly-crazy anger crept into Blair’s voice again. “The second way is, you fucking _trust me_ when I say I know what I’m doing and that my boys don’t get messed with by anybody on this level! This wouldn’t have happened if Falwell had stayed out of here. And it wouldn’t have happened if the boys had stayed in the yard, and there would be absolutely no question as to whether or not Stiles was actually Stiles!”

The exasperated rant was met with a sour expression. The warden rolled her eyes and crossed her arms as she tucked the iPad in close. “Fine. Whatever. But what the hell am I supposed to do with the kid now? I can’t just turn a demon-puppet loose in the yard, can I?”

Stiles let out an incredulous laugh as the woman went from dodging an admission of guilt to laying the blame back on him instead. Blair looked over at him, hesitating in his argument.

“He’s not a demon-puppet,” Derek pointed out. Stiles laughed again, pointed at the iPad.

“Yes, he is,” he said. “Blair’s right. It’s the nogitsune all over again. I mean, I talked to this one. He’s not the nogitsune. This one told me he was protecting me. He said they drugged me and were going to put me in a machine, so he took care of it since I couldn’t. I thought he killed me but he was trying to protect me.”

“No, he _tried_ to kill two doctors and some orderlies,” said the warden, not impressed.

“Did he say what he wants?” Blair asked, talking over her.

“He wants to _not_ be stuck in a coma,” said Stiles. He looked from Blair to the warden. “He needs help to get out of it. And I’m not sure it’s a he... _he_ could be a _she_. Kinda fluid. I dunno.”

“If _he_ just flattened an MRI, while in a coma, what the hell is this thing capable of outside of one?” The warden asked. Stiles shrugged.

“Low level stuff,” Blair chimed in. He seemed surprised. “It’s in the file on him... Er, _them_. The report from that village in Ireland thirty years ago. It’s a prankster. Shapeshifts into people, organizes frog armies, lights stuff on fire... short attention span and really smart. It’s a changeling.”

“Can we contain him?” the warden asked. “Or do we kill him now?”

“It’s a human husk,” Stiles said. “You can’t kill him. It sends him back to the energy he came from. Right now he just can’t access it because he’s locked in the husk.”

Throughout all of it, Derek kept quiet, watching like a little kid as the adults in the room argued. But he felt like there was something very obvious staring at all of them going unsaid.

“So we should kill it. Because we can’t contain it once it has control of a human form,” he pointed out. On the bed behind him, Stiles dug a knuckle into his hip in a hint to shut up and Derek sidestepped. He wasn’t going to drop it. “We’re all thinking it, because it's the most obvious outcome. We couldn’t kill the nogitsune, we can’t kill this thing. So we kill the shell and keep it out of your head.”

“This one has its own face, it doesn’t actually want to be in my head,” said Stiles. “It’s not like the fox, okay? That much I know.”

The warden looked between them, her expression curious and suspicious. “Besides that, as I told Blair, not everything here is about killing threats. We actually have a charter. I don’t want to kill it if I don’t have to. I want to contain it. Ideally, learn from it.”

“Based on the thing’s file, it might let you contain it as long as you’re an amusement. The file says it stayed in one spot once it established a territory. That’s how they caught it thirty years ago,” said Blair. “But based on the file, that’s asking for trouble. A lot of it.”

The warden considered the points a moment. Then she nodded like she made up her mind about something. “We’ll see what we get, then,” she said, backing away from the door. “Let me know if something changes.”

“Hey!” Blair followed after her. “I want these two out of the handcuffs. And I want to take them back to the yard.”

“Good for you. Everyone should have goals,” replied the warden. “They stay in here. And policy is policy. Go home, Blair. You can check on them in the morning.”

Derek caught Blair at the shoulder to keep him from going after the woman. The door closed behind the warden and Blair settled down somewhat, though he was still obviously pissed off. And, Derek realized for the first time, he was bruised. He hadn’t seen the black eye in the excitement of Stiles’ disappearance, and the explosion, and Blair had kept his back to them most of the time they were in the room.

Derek stepped back, shoving down on anger he didn’t quite know what to do with. At the same time, the cuffs at his wrists released and he was able to actually move freely again. It was temporary in the ward, but it was better than nothing. He felt like he could breathe easier.

“What happened to your face?” Derek asked. He nodded toward the halls. “Someone out there?”

Blair shook his head, looked around the room. “I can’t - uh...” He paused, seemed to get stuck in his head again, and then started over like he needed to focus. “Okay, so, I was downtown by my apartment and I got jumped. With _Lydia_. And Allison. And Chris.”

“What!” Stiles jumped off the bed again. Blair had Derek’s attention, too. And he seemed to be counting on it, because he spoke more carefully than his usual ramble.

“They were up here because of that paperwork Lydia had shown me when I was down in Beacon Hills. They wanted to get another opinion on it. And it didn’t go over great. So... I mean, I guess I’m working on it for her. Because we don’t have enough already on our plate, so why not add on to it, right?”

The man was speaking in code, and it wasn’t one Derek knew well enough to join in. Stiles seemed shocked but excited, which didn’t quite track with the bruise on Blair’s face and his generally exhausted state. Derek had many questions and he knew better than to ask any of them in the ward.

“Are you okay to go home? You got jumped, so is it safe?” he asked. Blair shrugged.

“It’s a _dangerous_ _neighborhood_. I’ll find out when I get there,” replied Blair. “I’m a little more worried about you guys at the moment.”

“Get us food. We’ll shove the bed in front of the door or something until we see you,” Derek said. Stiles nodded his agreement.

“And tomorrow I want to try waking up the changeling again,” he added. “I’m just... too tired to do it. I need energy. I need a nap. I... I don’t actually know. I’m just guessing.”

“Bad idea,” said Derek. “No.”

“ _I’m_ doing it, not you,” returned Stiles.

“I don’t want killed because you did it,” said Derek. Apparently they were on the same page on that because Stiles nodded his head.

“Exactly. That’s why I’m trying again. Get _us_ out of _here_ , let them deal with it.”

“Nope. Not happening,” said Derek. He crossed his arms and stood his ground, taller than Stiles out of old habit. Instead of shrink and be appropriately intimidated, Stiles’ lips twisted into a smug smirk.

“You’re so cute when you’re protective,” he said. Derek growled under his breath and sincerely missed the days when he could scare Stiles. Blair looked between them, amused but tired. He patted Derek on the shoulder sympathetically.

“Sorry, man. You lost that one,” he said. “I’m going to let you two sort it out. I’ll go try to find you some real food... don’t let anybody in. Or out. Or _anything_. Got it?”

Derek still scowled at Stiles but nodded his promise. “We wait for you.”

“Good man.” Blair said as he crossed to the door. There was a part of him that felt pride as Derek realized what he had said, and it almost distracted him from the doomed staring contest with Stiles. A moment later, he was gone. The lights went out in the room as Blair sealed them in. Stiles blinked first, reaching for the tangled blanket on the bed and tossing it at Derek.

“Barricade the door, remember?” he said. Derek did remember. But he was busy losing a silent fight. He reluctantly broke off and started shoving the bed toward the door.

“This conversation isn’t done,” he warned. Stiles seemed amused.

“Yes it is.”

 

***


	20. Chapter 20

The orders from their alpha didn’t make it settle any better that they were leaving without Stiles and Derek, but Claudia and Victoria attacked the escape-pipe. One lit up like a blow torch and the other... well, Victoria turned into a werewolf. Jim stood by the tunnel entrance and watched the two women work. It was hard to consider it _work_ , or any other kind of normal sounding task, because the human body was not _normally_ capable of melting cement pipe, and _normally_ when someone put their fist through a cement pipe, it was bones that broke, not the cement.

Within an hour, the women had a hole in the pipe large enough for a small person to climb through. Claudia was out of energy and had to stop, but Victoria kept going. The werewolf chipped away at the pipe like she was punching an exercise bag. Chunks fell away and lined up on the ground in a pile against the exposed pipe, like a tiny ladder for the ants.

Jim could smell dank water and car oil, something he hadn’t smelled in over two years. It was bitter and gross and sweet all at once and it went straight to his head. He had to pinch the bridge of his nose as the headache threatened from the noxious smells. In the smoky air of the tunnel, there was suddenly a bit of a cold air stream running through back up to the den. When Victoria backed away, satisfied with the access, Jim crept forward to test the opening. He would fit through, easily. It was dark in the pipe, however. That wasn’t a promising sign. When he asked Victoria about it, the woman shook her head.

“Worrying about the other side of that pipe wasn’t my job,” she said. “I just had to get us in there. Talia’s in charge of the rest.”

“You’re telling me you trust her with it?” Jim asked, darkly amused. He didn’t trust her. He wasn’t sure he trusted that the pipe wouldn’t just lead them right into the middle of the Sanctuary basement floor.

“Talia takes care of her pack. Where they go, she goes. She won’t lead us into an early grave lightly,” said Victoria.

“I’m not looking to follow anyone into an early grave,” Jim said. Victoria shrugged her shoulders, brushed her hands off on her dirty jeans.

“You’re not pack, so you don’t have to,” she replied. “The rest of us trust her. I’ve seen that woman go through hell for the people she calls family, so I trust her call. If this is the only way out, this is where I get off.”

There was a lot of weird shit in the Sanctuary, people who could do extraordinary things, but also a lot of people who believed in some pretty crazy things. Jim saw Talia Hale as a territorial, back-stabbing female, so he did not share the faith that so many had in her. He kept that opinion to himself, however and took another scent of the air outside the busted pipe.

The plans had come from Blair, though Jim hadn’t gone over them much himself. He didn’t think Blair would have given Stiles information that would be wrong. He wouldn’t risk the boys he had worked so hard to protect. But he had also been very clear about the risks. Mostly Sandburg had worried about Kincaid and the Patriots, come to think of it. Now that the worst case scenario that Blair had been worried about had come to pass, that left them with a stack of papers and a dark drain pipe with unknown origins. Curious at the possibility of a legitimate way out, Jim tested the pipe opening and climbed up inside.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Victoria called after him. Her voice echoed in the pipe and rang painfully in Jim’s ears.

“Check the route,” he called back. “And keep your voice down!”

The woman showed up in the busted entry way and tried handing him a torch. “You’re going to need this.”

Jim waved it off. “No, I won’t. It’ll just catch attention. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s pitch black in there, you won’t be able to see anything...”

Jim ignored Victoria’s obnoxious mothering and started making his way down the pipe. He stood in dank water, slightly putrid smelling and stagnant. Nothing but air and sound moved through the drain. Well away from the opening back to the den, Jim’s eyes started to adjust to the darkness. He set his hands to the walls and felt along the damp cement as he walked. From the feel of the walls, the pipes were used for regular draining of some sort, as the waterline went up almost two feet high. Jim took that as a positive sign and kept exploring. He still had a pretty good sense of direction working in his favor and the further away from the hole he got, the more hopeful he became. Maybe it would work. Maybe they could get everybody out.

Jim followed his gut and followed the pipeline north. A few minutes of careful traversing in the dark paid off. Dim light could be seen from an upper access, complete with the sound of dripping water. Jim rounded a bend in the pipe and saw a grated manhole in the ceiling of the pipe. It was an eight foot diameter pipe and he had plenty of room to stand on his own, but there would be no easy way to get up to the pipe. Most of Talia’s pack were shorter than him, and while they may have been some kind of supernatural mix of gifted, the jump would be risky and slow the group down if that was their only way out.

Jim stood under the grate and stared up at the world outside of it. He saw more darkness, a big open, empty space like the pipe, but the inside rim was further up. He could hear the echo of footsteps somewhere further off and then the telltale sign of a car alarm disengaging. Doors unlocked and then a car door opened. He was under a parking structure, a garage of some sort.

Taking a chance, Jim jumped and caught the short ladder that fed down from the manhole grate into the drain pipe. The car rumbled by overhead and, through the slated grate, Ellison recognized the undercarriage of an older model BMW, a car that was once top of the line and probably still cost more than his old truck for resale value. Probably one of the doctors’ vehicles, but Jim didn’t want to make any moves that might bring attention to the manhole.

He hung on the ladder and tried to spy around the inside of the parking structure without leaving the shadows of the drain. It was still daylight out and the parking structure had slotted walls that let the air flow in the garage and allowed natural sunlight through. It gave him more than enough light to see up into the rafters. It wasn’t very hard to find the camera systems he was looking for, either.

Jim dropped back down into the drain pipe, discouraged. There was no way they could make their escape through the parking structure like Talia had said was the plan. It was monitored and they would all be caught and probably killed before the whole pack could make it to the surface.

There was no way to know how long they would have to follow the pipe to find the next outlet, short of walking it themselves. And that wasn’t something they had a lot of time to experiment with, under the circumstances. Frustrated, Jim turned back to go look for the women at the den. Maybe there was something else in the papers Blair had left for them. They had come too far toward the escape plans to give up now, but the plan as he knew it wouldn’t work. If Talia was keeping something from him again, they would have a few words, but if she was being straight with Jim, if they really were supposed to get out through the garage, then the plan needed to change. He had to get back and find out what he was dealing with, before Talia went and caused a riot getting everyone’s hopes up about leaving.

The last thing they needed was someone getting desperate and doing something stupid that could tip their hand.

 

****

 

After finding some real food for Derek and Stiles, Blair let himself out of the Sanctuary for the day. He was exhausted and there was no way he would be able to sleep in his office with T-bird there to protest. The bird didn’t like being locked up in the office and Sandburg felt bad about it; at least in the Ward he had been able to socialize with people all day, every day. In the office he had the torment of daylight outside the window and no human company most of the day. It wasn’t fair, but there wasn't anything Blair could do about it, either.

It was still daylight when Blair got to his truck, though rain clouds had rolled in. Maybe the rain would keep things quiet another day or so, maybe it would buy Blair time to get Stiles and Derek out of the Ward. He didn’t know when the Patriots would make their move, but the boys had to be back in the yard before it happened. Otherwise they would be locked in the thick of the attack and prime targets.

It also wore at Blair because if something happened to him, even if the Patriots never made a move against the Sanctuary, it left Derek and Stiles in the easy grasp of doctors like Falwell. They had already killed Derek once, so what damage would they do when they got their hands on Stiles and expected him to just heal up like the werewolves could? At least in the yard the boys had Talia’s pack for defense and they had a fighting chance against the doctors’ inmate bounty hunters. Locked up in a Ward Six cell, they were served up on a platter. He didn’t like leaving them there overnight, but he couldn’t stay. Blair was exhausted like everybody else, and a full two hours drive away from being able to sleep.

On the drive back to Cascade, he thought about calling Simon Banks and begging for some kind of help. It had occurred to him a dozen times over the previous twenty-four hours, but there wasn’t a damn thing the man could do. He was already past the retirement age and stalling the inevitable; Human Resources wanted his caseload transferred to the new division chief by the end of the year and Banks kept putting it off because he wanted to keep Blair on with the department. He was pulling strings and bending rules trying to keep Blair’s credentials with the department in place while he looked for Jim. It wasn’t easy to justify keeping a detective on the city rolls when that detective wasn’t actually working for the city, but Simon was determined to do it.

And he didn’t even know Blair had found Jim this time; Blair didn’t know what to tell him, given that every level of it sounded like a crazy government conspiracy right out of the X-Files. There was no way to make it make sense to a straight-laced guy like Simon. There was no way to protect him from the Patriots if he asked for help, too, so Blair chickened out every time the thought crossed his mind.

The one thing Simon could maybe help with was the whole Blair-was-maybe-a-father thing, but Blair was still very focused on _avoiding_ that possibility until their deaths weren’t quite as certain. Besides, Derek had a record in Beacon Hills and the captain of the Cascade PD Major Crimes unit would find that in just short of five seconds and Blair would never hear the end of it, which didn’t work at a time when he really needed to be taken seriously.

Instead, he drove into the city on his own and didn’t call anyone. He had all the help he was going to get, he just had to figure out how to work with the friends he already had caught up in the mess with him. A little out of the box thinking was good for the brain, kept a man sharp witted and on his toes. Blair Sandburg could totally do this. After a nap.

He parked at his building and walked inside, his phone blessedly silent so hopefully that meant no fires needed putting out anywhere. He could sleep early and get out to the Sanctuary in the morning and figure out how to get Stiles and Derek back down to the yard. Positive thinking was going to carry him right to dreamland and...

...then he opened his apartment door to find someone had decided to hold a party in his living room without inviting him.

“Look who’s home early,” came the unwelcome greeting from his couch. Blair froze at the door, stopped to check the hall for witnesses, and then hurried into his apartment to close the door. He dumped his backpack on the kitchen island and walked in to see how many of the Sunrise Patriots had shown up to pick a fight this time. He saw the henchmen from the fight that morning, and a very unhappy looking Chris Argent on his couch. Blair was relieved the man was still alive, but he didn’t envy him the bruised face and cut lip.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, because nobody was volunteering the info. Jericho thumbed over his shoulder to point at the closed double doors of Blair’s bedroom. Not only were they closed, there was a table shoved up against them.

“The girls decided to set fire to my place, so we moved everybody here. Maybe they’ll be nicer to your shit,” he said. “And, bonus, if we have to make any messes, it’s on you to clean up, not us.”

Chris’ expression darkened but the man didn’t say anything. Blair figured they were on the same page just then, and he had to pause and close his eyes to center himself to keep from swearing. He tried again when he figured he could play along and not get himself or Chris in any fights they were both too old and too tired to deal with.

“Look, I got the sniffers planted everywhere I have access to, alright? Everything should be going exactly how you wanted it to go,” he said. Jericho nodded.

“So I’ve been told, yep. The boys back east were looking at the numbers all day. It doesn’t look like it will be too much of a problem at all,” the terrorist replied, cheerful like they were discussing traffic at the local fishing hole. “I’m still missing a read on that door near Kincaid though.”

Blair wanted to deck the man in the face but refrained. He was too tired. “I told you, there is no accessible door there. Therefore there is no traffic to monitor. And, incidentally, I can’t get to it, even if there was.”

“We’re gonna need you to work on that,” said Jericho.

His buddy Jeff stood up off the couch then, arms crossed like he was trying to add intimidation to Jericho’s polite request. Blair shook his head. He went to retrieve his backpack from the kitchen and headed for the stairs. He was going to sleep it off in Jim’s room since he couldn’t get to his own bed.

“I’m gonna need sleep. You guys want anything else, write it down. Make a list and I’ll get to it in the morning,” he said. “And if that’s not acceptable then shoot me and send in your own guys to do it better. Good luck getting past the retina scanners and the gas chambers, but hey, you guys have got this shit handled, right?”

The angry protest earned a laugh from Jericho and the Patriot thugs let Blair escape to the loft bedroom. Someone turned the TV back on and very shortly after they started a running commentary about the boxing match they were watching. Pay per view boxing, on Blair’s tv. Just to add insult to injury, he was going to have to pay for their antics with next month’s cable bill even if he did survive their siege on the Sanctuary. Blair dropped his bag and fell face first onto the pillows, praying he could pass out before the anger ate his brain.

The day just got better and better.

 

*****

 

“Did you hear any of that?” Lydia whispered at Allison. She stood up and went to the French doors of their newest holding cell to peek out through the curtains over the glass. Allison nodded, her eyes tracking to the ceiling to follow the sound of footsteps on the floor over their heads.

“Sounds like he’s done for the day,” she said. There was no way out of the office-bedroom aside from the blocked off double doors Lydia stood staring out of, so Allison returned her attention to the window by the desk she sat at.

Trying to start up the lighthouse hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. They did get it lit up that afternoon, although they did so by starting an electrical fire in the lamp, but they were caught at it before they could try directing the light to signal for help. The upside was that it got them out of the lighthouse, and Allison knew where her dad was again. The downside was that their new accommodations were cluttered with papers and fetishes and wall hangings but not a single possible weapon. It was an apartment building, with who knew how many occupants, so Allison wasn’t tempted to burn it down to get out of it.

From where she sat at the window, she saw the stairs for the condo’s fire escape, but they were attached to the balcony off the living room doors and very out of reach for her and Lydia. It was tauntingly close, and she really wanted to try making a break for it, but the splitting headache behind her eyes made it a very bad idea.

It also made her doubt her senses. She thought she saw someone in the alley below the fire escape, someone annoyingly familiar, and he was trying to catch the lower rung of the ladder to climb up.

“Lydia...” Allison said, very carefully quiet. “Can you come look at this? I... I’m not sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.”

Curiosity caught, Lydia left her post at the front doors and moved to the window. She leaned on the desk to look out the window where Allison pointed.

“I don’t see...” Then she pitched forward further to try opening the window.

“You _can’t_ be serious,” she said, sounding just as surprised as Allison felt.

“I’m not seeing things?” Allison asked. “Is that really who it looks like?”

Lydia nodded. She had the window slid open and was trying to pry at the screen. “I can’t actually believe it. But it’s really him.”

Allison closed her eyes and rubbed at her temple, willing the headache to fade. It was one of those weird headaches that didn’t feel like it started in her head again, and it was distracting and annoying. And she knew she was going to need all hands on deck if she was going to have to deal with the unpredictable and selfish maneuverings of Peter Hale.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered.

“Right?” asked Lydia. “How did he find us? He better not screw anything up or I’ll kill him...”

“Everything is pretty well screwed up, Lydia,” Allison reminded her helpfully. “At this point, maybe two negatives will cancel each other out to create a positive.”

“Oh sweetie,” sad Lydia automatically. “There are no positives to Peter Hale.”

“If he can climb a fire escape for us, I’m willing to pretend,” Allison replied. As if he heard her, Peter caught the ladder finally and began the climb toward their window. With the screen safely pulled inside the room, Lydia caught hold of Allison’s arm and leaned out the window.

“Peter!” she hissed. “Don’t go on the balcony!”

Not fully up to their floor yet, Peter stopped and looked to the balcony she pointed at. He looked back to them and looped an arm in the ladder, like he was comfortable just hanging out.

“Right. Why not? I was _going_ to make an entrance...” he said. Allison rolled her eyes, knowing full well that the man wasn’t kidding despite the attempt at sarcasm.

“Because bad guys! With guns!” Lydia returned. Peter smiled, fangs casually making an appearance. Lydia waved an accusing finger.

“Don’t you dare!”

Peter sighed dramatically and shrugged it off. “How else do you propose getting rid of bad guys with guns?”

Allison narrowed her eyes, considering the question. It wasn’t a great idea to set a werewolf loose on their Sunrise Patriots babysitters because Jericho and Jeff were just two of _many_. Allison had seen their system now and knew it was more well-connected and reliable than the world of the hunters that her grandfather had introduced her to. And they operated on fear and power, just like her grandfather did. Her grandfather tended to kill anything remotely in the vicinity of in his way, however. The Patriots took hostages and caused pain and it got them everything they wanted.

“Oh my god,” Allison blurted, the realization hitting her. Lydia looked back at her, confused. Allison started pushing her friend toward the window. “Remove the hostages. They lose. Let’s go...”

“What- Ally! What are you-” Lydia kept her voice down but the confusion was obvious.

“We’re safer with him than the Patriots,” Allison said. “If we can get halfway, Peter can catch us. We get out of here. Then Dad and Dr. Sandburg don’t have to worry about us.”

Lydia saw the logic and seemed to agree, but she took another look at the three-story drop out the window and planted her heels, shaking her head. Allison tried again to coax her onto the narrow desk. “Come on... I can help.”

“I am thoroughly and completely and wholeheartedly absofuckinlutely against this idea,” Lydia reported. It wasn’t necessary at all, given that Allison was prying her hands off the window frame and had a pretty good clue that Lydia wasn’t okay with the new plan.

“Tell me about it on the ground,” Allison told her. She smiled impishly at her friend as she got her into the window and helped her stand on the very narrow ledge. Allison poked her head out around Lydia and looked to see that Peter had caught on to the plan. He had climbed closer to their level and was working to anchor himself to the ladder to catch Lydia. Allison smiled up at a very anxious Lydia. “You can do this. We’ve got you...”

“Very bad idea... Very bad idea...” Lydia said, her voice a flat toned mantra.

“We’re fine,” Allison said. “Just don’t scream.”

Lydia cut her a glare and Allison gave her legs a tiny push as a hint. Her friend wavered and then inched out a little further toward Peter. She got to the edge, reached out toward him without letting go of the window frame.

“Go!” The encouragement wasn’t welcomed and Lydia still hesitated. She reached one more inch and then fell. Peter caught her before she could do more than squeak and pulled her to the landing on the fire escape. She looked murderous, but she was safe on solid ground. Allison looked to the curtained off French doors and saw they were still closed. Lydia hadn’t caught anyone’s attention over the sound of the boxing match on the TV.

That meant it was her turn. Allison closed the window a little, to hide their disappearing trick and slow down any interference if someone came looking for them at the wrong time. Then she climbed out onto the ledge. It was scary, not a reassuring view at all. But she had enough gymnastics training to know where to put her feet. She got a solid enough toe-hold on the edge and jumped. Peter caught her arm and pulled her in, leaving Allison feeling triumphant, as if they had rehearsed for months to pull off that simple escape.

She caught Lydia’s hand and pulled her friend to the stairs and down toward the street. The first objective was to get away, out of sight and to safety, and then, later, they could come up with a plan.

****


	21. Chapter 21

There was a big piece of paper on the cell door, covering the window at eye level. The tinted thick glass warped the lettering a little, but Stiles could still read it when Blair taped it in place. As stupid and juvenile as it was, it made him feel a little better, like somebody actually understood. Derek saw it when he shoved the bed frame over on its side and wedged it up against the frame to block the door hinges and keep the door from opening, so he asked and Stiles happily reported.

“Explosive contents under pressure. Do not open without Dr. Blair Sandburg,” he said. Even Derek cracked a tiny smile. It was small, just the twist of the corner of his lips, but it counted. He nodded toward the werewolf-created blockade. “Do you think it will work?”

Derek settled down on the mattress beside him, offered up a shrug. “Depends on how mad Falwell is.”

That didn’t make Stiles feel any more at ease. He flopped onto his back to stare at the ceiling and try to pretend he wasn’t locked in a glass box being spied on by people who wanted to kill him slowly. The best they could do for comfort was a twin sized mattress stolen from the bed and set up on the safety of the floor out of sight behind the upturned frame. It was technically too small for the both of them, thanks to Derek’s stupid broad shoulders, and they had one pillow and one blanket for the both of them. They had more privacy and better accommodations down in the cell block. Everything about Ward Six sucked.

“This isn’t fair,” Stiles complained, quiet. Still sitting up on the edge of the mattress beside him, Derek scoffed.

“You don't know half of it,” he said. Stiles frowned at the offhand comment, propped himself up to stare at Derek for it more properly.

“What? What did I miss?” he asked. Derek shook his head.

“Nothing. That’s not what I meant,” he said. And he lied, right to Stiles’ face, and his heart rate told on him. Stiles was tired. He ached all over from whatever he had tapped into to make the MRI explode, and he was still feeling sick from the werewolf drugs they had tranquilized him with. It had not been an awesome day.

It hadn’t been a great week, either.

Actually, he had lived through a pretty shitty couple of months, really.

And now Derek, the one person he knew would go through hell with him and for him, had just lied. He was hiding something, probably protecting Stiles from something. It didn’t seem fair, it was mildly insulting, and it made Stiles paranoid as all hell, considering they literally lived in a glass room at the moment. What could possibly be out there waiting for them that Stiles didn’t already have a full understanding of?

Faced with the option of stewing in paranoid silence or taking the bull by the horns in close quarters, Stiles chose the harder course in the hopes of preserving what remained of his sanity.

“Yeah, _no_. Try that again, a little less _lying_ this time,” he said.

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m not lying.”

“You’re not truthing, either,” said Stiles. He wasn’t angry, he was fully happy to negotiate terms, but he wasn’t going to be shrugged off. Just to prove it, he sat up and pivoted off the mattress beside Derek to instead kneel over his legs. In the dark, Derek’s ears turned pink as they were suddenly in each other’s intimate space in a room with glass walls. While not exactly an exhibitionist, Stiles didn’t have Derek’s hangups on public displays of affection, so he didn’t care. He poked Derek in the chest.

“Tell me the half I don’t know,” he said. He could have gotten pretty creative with his threats, perched as he was in Derek’s lap, but he let the danger brew in the silence between Derek’s ears instead. If there was anything Stiles had figured out about Derek by now, it was that he would always be ten times more inventive on worst case scenarios than Stiles could get. It was why he was always so cranky, always had to control things. He would scare himself into cooperating and Stiles just had to _pretend_ to be a threat; easy Intimidation 101, as taught to him by Derek himself, so it was totally fair play.

“I can’t, otherwise you would have heard about it by now,” said Derek. “All I meant was, it’s not fair. We lose everything, that’s how this goes, every time.”

Sensing the dodge, Stiles narrowed his eyes at him.

“Okay... pretend you _can_ tell me. What _everything_ do you lose? If they come back, if Falwell’s really pissed I broke the MRI, _you_ take a nap. I get my _eyeballs_ dissected like frog guts, and _I_ don’t heal... so I mean, it’s not a perfect understanding, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got our present situation pretty much locked down. What am I missing from the equation?”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, annoyed and pinned down. “Don’t-“

“Gonna,” said Stiles, insistent. “I’ve got nothing better to do, and I don’t want to start wondering if I can trust _you_. Not here.”

“I _am_ here! Isn’t that proof enough?”

“Not when you say stupid shit like I only know half of what’s going on.” Just to add emphasis to the ridiculousness of it, Stiles let Derek take a little of his weight in his lap and bucked his hips, playful and taunting to torment out the explanation, any explanation that would make it make sense. Derek growled at him for it - which did not help Stiles’ petulant mood at all - and brought his hands up to hold Stiles’ face.

They sat there, nose to nose, foreheads touching, and Derek closed his eyes like he needed to center. Stiles realized he had made a terrible mistake climbing in Derek’s lap because he wanted that closeness and he wasn’t sure how much he cared about the fact that they had to sleep in a fishbowl. That was really all he wanted, though; just to feel like they were still a team, on the same page and working from the same playbook, like they had been since Derek turned himself in at a werewolf jail for him. No secrets or half truths. Stiles stared at him in quiet, moved just enough to kiss his nose to draw him out again.

Derek opened his eyes and Stiles didn’t need super sensitive vision to see the bright blues. It was very, very confusing. Stiles caught him at the ribs, fistfuls of his dirty shirt to balance off of and keep him close.

“What is wrong, man?” he whispered. “You’re not alone. We’re stuck here, but I’m with you. We’ve got your mom... my mom even. We’ve got pack...”

“Not mine,” Derek said. He still held Stiles’ face in his hands, careful and so serious. “I’ve got you. Family isn’t pack, Stiles.”

“Then what is? Because I’ve got this demon-fairy running around that can pop in my head whenever he wants, and he said I take care of the pack, and that’s why he can talk to me, so _we got problems_ if there’s no pack,” said Stiles.

“Pack is who you look out for, who you come back to,” said Derek. “That’s just you and me. No betas, no alphas.”

Stiles quirked his head to the side, just enough to challenge Derek’s hold on him. “If it’s just you and me, then what can’t you tell me?”

Derek stared at him, at least his eyebrows silently calling Stiles a bastard. Stiles grinned at him for it, because smiling felt good.

“I’ll _tell_ you in the _yard_ ,” said Derek, dodging again. Stiles shoved at him, wrestling him down to the mattress. Derek allowed it, but if he only played along in the hopes of distracting Stiles from his objective, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Stiles trapped his hips between his thighs and leaned his arms high on Derek’s chest to pin him down.

“Here’s the thing. As I understand it, as everybody’s shown me anyway, Pack is who you _protect_ ,” said Stiles. “And I’m not gonna argue with that, because I think it’s what the demon-fae was telling me earlier, and the guy who can _electrocute_ _everybody_ in a twenty foot radius of an MRI and who randomly lives in _my_ head is just... going to win, alright? So I get you wanna protect me from whatever it is, but I swear to god, man, all I can hear is the way your heart jackrabbits and I see your eyes and I know there’s something wrong. And you’re just going to hide it until it bites me in the ass, and we don’t need that bullshit.”

Derek stared at him, angry at being held down, even by Stiles who was comparatively the size of a twig. But he seemed to hear the twig enough to allow it. He even relaxed a little, so Stiles pinned down a squishy human instead of an annoying body-shaped rock.

“I don’t know what’s going on. Mom said she would tell me later, and we came up here instead,” Derek said eventually. Stiles started to call him out for another dodge but Derek put a hand over his mouth to stop him from broadcasting.

“I just know she and Jim can’t stand to be in the same space, and Jim’s mad she won’t tell me something. And the whole-“

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, lips still mashed against Derek’s hand. The interruption came because of the fire drill klaxons that had suddenly started going off inside his brain and he didn’t know how to turn off that switch. “You smell like Blair. You- oh _shit_. He’s family-”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t know. Whatever he is, he’s stuck here with the rest of us, and I’m on the outside of my mom’s pack, with no help. Some demon has my face, so apparently I’m replaceable. I can’t protect us, they can’t, we are on our own...”

For the first time in a few days, Stiles actually heard what Derek was trying to say. Maybe it was the first time Derek had actually said anything at all, but it finally made sense to Stiles, anyway. He shifted enough to get around the hand Derek held up to muffle his mouth and he curled around Derek as much as he could. He set his chin at Derek’s collar and listened to the man’s heartbeat at his neck, listened to his breath, and felt the tension in his body.

What Stiles heard and felt was the sudden realization that Derek was scared. They were _both_ scared. But Stiles had become used to admitting that around werewolves. He had just sort of accepted that he was full of fail and nobody’s perfect son, and yet he knew his dad loved him and his friends tolerated him just as he was. And he had mostly figured it that his mom still loved him, too. There was a certain security in knowing he was the crazy one who could talk with demons and still have friends to rely on at the end of the day.

Derek didn’t have that reassurance. He had a rug under his feet and somebody _constantly_ yanking on it.

Stiles caught at Derek’s hand to hang on to, in no hurry to move when his impression of a human blanket was the only defense he could provide against the isolation Derek was fighting.

“You got me, I got you. Remember? That’s what you said last month. That’s how this works. We’re a whole pack of two,” he decided. “We can worry about everybody else if they make it through the door.”

 

****

  
Because of who Peter Hale was as a person, it was no surprise to find he had stolen Derek’s truck while the owner was locked up in werewolf jail. And because of who she was as a person, Allison didn’t figure it would be that much of a surprise when she stole the keys from Peter’s hand and got behind the wheel of the already stolen vehicle. Derek’s uncle glared at her through the window.

“Go around already,” Allison told him. He hesitated, like he was waiting to get run over, but Allison kept the truck parked. Lydia climbed into the seat behind her as Peter ran around to the passenger side.

“What happened to your _manners_ , girl?” Peter said, huffy. “I just helped you and you steal my car-“

“Derek’s car, not yours. And I didn’t steal it. I’m just driving it. Away from here and them,” Allison replied.

“The more important question is why are you here? You aren’t normally the one to run _toward_ trouble,” Lydia interrupted. “And this is a long way from home.”

“I didn’t think you even liked Derek,” said Allison. “What do you care about a rescue?”

“I’ll have you know I half raised my nephew, thank you very much. I like him just fine,” Peter replied.

In the rear view mirror, Lydia could be seen, very clearly rolling her eyes. “Except for the whole killing-murder-resurrection thing.”

“We got _past that_ , obviously,” said Peter. To his credit, he did sound genuinely annoyed. “And I don’t know why you think I _wouldn’t_ be here. Did you even bother to read those prison rosters you and Sandburg left lying around the loft last month? Prisoner 0496: _Talia_ Samantha Hale.”

“Well, we knew about it but that doesn’t mean you were supposed to,” said Lydia, quiet and mildly annoyed herself.

“When _two_ members of my pitiful family turn up in one spot, I think I have sufficient motivation to follow up on a rescue effort.” Peter turned in his seat to glare at her but she waved a hand back toward the escape they had just made.

“What good does it do to know she’s in there when the escape plan doesn’t work, hmm? _Detective_ Sandburg was right. It isn’t possible and we shouldn’t have tried it. We just made everything worse.”

Allison bit her lip as she listened, tried to focus on the city traffic at dusk as the sunlight disappeared behind tall buildings. She mostly remembered the way back to their hotel and their backpacks and weapons, but Lydia’s words were distracting her. It didn’t settle with Peter very well, either.

“What do you mean, you made it worse? You had a plan,” he said.

“ _Bad guys_ with _guns_ , Peter. Those guys were the plan, and instead of take our information and do the work themselves, they’re trying to make Detective Sandburg do it. And if they kill him, we lose everyone on the inside, and if the Sanctuary finds out there’s a security threat, then we lose everyone on the inside,” said Lydia. “So exactly what’s going to happen when those guys find out Ally and I aren’t locked up in the room they tried to bury us in?”

Peter considered it, his cold and calculating nature working in their favor for once. “They _presumably_ still need Sandburg to get them on the inside. He has considerably more leverage now that he doesn’t have to worry about hostages putting him in the negative balance.”

Allison glanced over at that, unamused. “They still have my father.”

“The Sanctuary has your _mother_ but I don’t see you picking sides,” replied Peter. At the gasp from Lydia, the annoying passenger seemed to realize he had dropped a bombshell of an announcement. Allison tried not to react, not wanting to give him the satisfaction as he stared at her.

“Wait... you honestly didn’t know?” he asked. He looked back at Lydia, accusing. “Did you not read any of the information about that place before going and making _plans_?”

It took all of Allison’s focus to keep the Toyota pointed in the right direction. She suddenly wanted to cry. There was a bizarre feeling of relief tangled up with fear; both of her parents were alive, but both of them were a hair's breadth away from disaster. And Allison was driving a stolen car away from both of them. It didn’t escape her notice that tipping off the Sunrise Patriots had succeeded in nothing substantial so far except put both of her parents in danger. She let Lydia and Peter bicker about it and tried to stay calm, tried to keep breathing when she just wanted to scream.

Allison was there to help her friends and was instead getting ringside seats to losing both of her parents for good. She wasn’t one to panic, but she was pretty sure the tightness in her chest was threatening anxiety. She didn’t understand how things had gone so sideways, but she knew without a doubt that she needed to get back to their abandoned hotel room and the weapons stashed in their bags. Maybe it wouldn’t solve anything right away, but she could at least defend herself as the world started falling apart in chunks all around her.

 

***

 

Finding the way out was easy. Jim traced his way back further once he found the hole that went to the den again, exploring the opposite direction. He was mildly surprised to discover the pipe was buried far enough to be placed below the showers in the cell block. There, he heard the familiar sporadic noises from the showers above and saw only a steady stream of water draining down from the ceiling from the grated gutter.

From the inside, he knew the grates were cemented in, and the drain trough was only an inch deep, so there was no way to tell that there was an escape route so close under their feet. Werewolves could have made a big enough hole in the floor if they had been properly motivated, but Jim was glad it hadn’t been tried. They were taking a big enough risk with the mostly tame pack of supernatural creatures running with them. He didn’t want to worry about all of them causing havoc on the streets of his city. Even if Cascade wasn’t his city anymore.

As he pressed further back along the pipe, thinking about the logistics of their escape plan, he realized more and more that he couldn’t go home. Just by escaping, he would put Blair at risk. Blair was under contract with the Sanctuary, he couldn’t just stop showing up to work one day and not have goons showing up at their door the next to burn it down. They tried burning down the apartment to get to Derek Hale, so they wouldn’t be very friendly to Blair quitting their secret experiment lab club. They wouldn’t leave anyone alive to potentially talk about lab club.

Blair would have to run with him. There would be no more home.

It wasn’t something Jim had thought about much before. Escape of any kind was a bitter pipe dream he had avoided for too long. And now he worried about living out of a truck and off the grid to hide from the Sanctuary on the other side of it.

Jim made it back to the den stewing on the quagmire he found himself in. To his surprise, when he asked Talia about the plans for getting around the cameras in the garage, the alpha den mother didn’t know about them. They weren’t on the plans Blair had left. In fairness, there wasn’t a map of the grounds or anything cleverly marked “Escape: _that way_ ” either. They had pieced together the layout of the drainage system and just started digging until they found a likely candidate. They knew that eventually, somewhere, pipes ran under the garage, and just had to narrow down the direction the pipe lay.

“We can’t take anyone out through the garage,” Jim told her, voice quiet because of likely evesdroppers. “We can get at best two people out at a time, and the second someone is spotted on a security camera, they lock the gates. And I don’t want to know what happens if they get caught.”

Talia shook her head. “As long as I’ve been here, there’s never been an escape. When we set the block on fire a few years ago, we were trying to test their responses just because we had never seen what they would do.”

“What happened?” Jim asked.

“They just let it burn out,” said Talia. “Alarms sounding, sprinkler systems going, and the gates never opened. We had to sort it out ourselves.”

It wasn’t like Jim could say he was surprised by the news. “How do they handle riots?”

The woman gave a dry, unamused laugh. “They let it burn out.”

Jim shook his head. “We can't work with what we’ve got. Even if we could get the pack out to the garage, starting a riot in the yard won’t be enough to distract from them showing up on a security camera. And it won’t get us up to Blair, either. We’d just be hanging ourselves, and Blair, and the boys right along with us.”

“I don’t see that we have much choice,” Talia replied. “If they start scanning the grounds with any kind of radar, if the tunnels get found, who knows what they’ll do.”

“You just told me what they’ll do,” said Jim. “They won’t send anybody in here. They’ll burn the whole place down before they risk having to explain to a security union how they lost their riot-trained officers to a bunch of wild animal attacks. The liability’s too huge. That’s why this place is built like a fortress.”

Talia considered it. She didn’t seem happy, but she was listening for once. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying wait. It’s a gamble, but let’s wait. We look around some more. Maybe Blair has some outside advantage on this. He’s seen more of this place than we have.”

“Blair can’t get access-“

“For the love of God, Hale, stop telling me what Sandburg _can’t_ do! You obviously don’t know the guy, otherwise you wouldn’t have pulled that crap with Derek years ago,” cut in Jim, anger raising his voice. Talia glared at him for it, her eyes briefly flashing red but Jim just scowled back at her. “I’m telling you, he’s as invested in this in we are, so just give me -and him- a chance to chase down a less risky angle! Just trust us. For once.”

For all it felt good to finally get that grievance off his chest, it had felt better a few seconds before when Jim had thought that maybe, for once, the old Sam was back and they were working from the same playbook. Instead, Jim had to hold his ground and square off with a woman who he knew well enough could remove his head from his shoulders if she felt like it. Werewolves gave a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘crazy bitches’ for him over the past year and a half, and Jim had learned caution. Yelling at the alpha, in the den, was the opposite of caution.

To his relief, however, her anger cracked. The woman showed stress and exhaustion and frustration, but she didn’t rip his head off. Good sign.

“How long are you suggesting we wait?” she asked.

“Until we have a better answer than setting up a shooting gallery in front of the garage security cameras,” Jim said. It was the only answer he had. Talia didn’t like it.

But she agreed to it.

 

*****


	22. Chapter 22

There was something funny in the bonfire, Blair was pretty sure. He felt a little high, all loose and drowsy. And he was pretty sure lab beakers weren’t normally six-foot tall and dancing on spindly legs to Congo drums. It was, to say the least, a sight to see. But it was hazy, the fog of smoke surrounding him and isolating him from the celebration going on around him. No stranger to lucid dreaming, Blair did what he did best: he observed.

He was at some kind of hybrid party: two parts bonfire, one part frat party, and one part ritualistic ceremony with tribal elders in full face and body paint seated around the fire. Blair knew them, had seen them many times in dreams, though he had only met Jim’s tribe once. They were from the tribe that had taken Jim in when he was stranded in Peru, and had initially gotten him through the first eighteen months of his senses coming on line. They had trusted Blair, years later, with the task of helping Jim, of being his guide.

They were his subconscious’ way of letting him know he had failed Jim, and them, and Blair was fairly certain he hated his own brain in that moment.

The dancing glass beaker with its bright pink liquid inside sloshed around between them, followed by a three foot tall carved rabbit fetish. The beaker’s scrawny arms carried a carrot so of course the rabbit was chasing it. _Of course._

When Blair looked around the fire again, he saw faces he recognized in the revelers. Simon, some of the other officers from Major Crimes. A secretary from the filing department was crying. One of Blair’s old professors was there, which was disturbing because the man had died ten years earlier. The party was taking on an eerie tone, with even the flames of the fire turning a shade green.

Something bumped his shoulder and Blair looked to see a green eyed black panther sitting tall beside him. Jim’s panther. _Was Jim looking for him? Fuck._  Blair was at home asleep and Jim needed him- but the big cat yawned and snapped his jaws, only stared at Blair.

“Oh, come on. You aren’t even going to help us out with this?” he blurted. He knew better. The cat just looked away, ears and tail alert about something, twitching. The cat was busy. _That_ figured.

Blair followed the cat’s attention to the other side of the fire. There he saw a familiar gray wolf, older around the muzzle but healthy. He stood on the defensive, teeth bared at the flames. It didn’t make sense, until Blair saw that the wolf - _his_ wolf - was defending someone. Talia stood behind the wolf. A large black wolf had mirrored the gray one’s position on her other side.

“What the hell?” Blair wondered, trying to understand what he was seeing. The black wolf stood half crouched, braced and blocking access to the gray wolf’s neck and chest as the three stared into the fire.

The big cat beside Blair rose to his haunches then, only to crouch like he was ready to pounce into the fire. Blair went to reach for him, grasping at air as the jaguar got away.

“Don’t you dare!”

And then Blair was awake, out of breath and feeling terrified. He realized why as a buzzing rattled painfully in his jeans pocket. His phone was still on mute from when he was at the Sanctuary. And now it was going off. _Oh_.

_Shit!_

Blair scrambled to answer it. He stammered out a greeting that was very slurred from sleep but quiet; he heard the tv on downstairs easily enough but didn’t want to accidentally let anyone know he still carried a working phone.

“Sandburg, can you get us a map of the sewer system down here?” Jim asked, speaking quickly. Blair had to remember what was being discussed, and then figure out why he didn’t have a good answer. He wanted to help, but he wasn’t quite out of the dream yet.

“One second,” he muttered. He put the phone on the bed and tried to sit up, silently. He scrubbed at his face and shook his head, clearing cobwebs and dream shadows. Then he reached for the phone again and buried half his face in the pillows so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Okay... the sewer is a little vague. Uh. Explain?”

“Our only way out right now puts us in the garage, in front of cameras. We’re looking to avoid that,” said Jim. Blair was foggy on details but he remembered something from that morning, about breaking out, using his notes, and that there was a sewer breach plan.

“Uh... There’s a frontage road. And a ditch runs along it for a couple miles. That’s maybe where the pipes let out, if you follow them far enough,” said Blair. “But who knows what it looks like underground if they’ve got random gas chambers on every floor. That place is a _little_ paranoid.”

“Not about the drains,” Jim said. “It seems they forgot that dogs dig up the yard.”

“God, I hope none of those people ever owned a dog,” replied Blair. “I wouldn’t even let them have a hamster.”

“They _have_ a few hundred _humans_ , Blair. I don’t think there’s much you could do about a hamster,” Jim pointed out. Blair scowled at the phone.

“You know what I meant!”

Things must have been looking up somehow though; Jim almost sounded like his old self, mocking Blair for a careless comment. It was Jim’s version of a Dad-joke, since they had never sorted out if Blair had been adopted as an annoying brother or as the naive son who needed protection. For Jim, having Blair around was close enough to having a tribe again, and that was enough excuse for Dad-jokes.

“Look, I’ve got to sort a few things out on this end,” Jim said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. If nothing else, this phone is going to need charged soon. If you can manage it, anyway.”

Blair collapsed under the pillows. “Yeah, sure. I’ll add it to the list.”

“Be _careful_ , Chief.”

And then Jim was gone again. Blair almost curled up to sleep, feeling too trapped to do anything more useful. But he remembered what Jim said and then dug into his backpack at the side of the bed, chasing a phone charger so his smartphone still had power when he woke up in the morning. Maybe he didn’t have a lot of options, but he had the resources he would need to work around that. As long as he remembered to keep the tools charged and ready to go, at least.

Once his phone was plugged in and hidden in his backpack again, Blair got back to sleep much easier.

 

****

 

Sleep didn’t seem to be Allison’s friend that night. She was afraid. Afraid to sleep, afraid to be seen awake, afraid the Patriots would find them, afraid Peter Hale would betray them, or kill them, afraid to let him out of her sight, afraid her parents wouldn’t see another day, afraid she had let her friends down... she wasn’t usually one to dwell on the negative, but the losses were stacking up.

Peter had gotten a hotel room - on Derek’s credit card, Allison noticed - right off the freeway about five miles from Cascade. They were nowhere near Blair Sandburg’s loft and there was no reason to suspect the Patriots knew to look for any of the Hales. Ignoring the part where they were staying in the same room as Peter, Allison and Lydia were safe. They had picked up their stuff from their abandoned rental vehicle at their last abandoned hotel, so they had their cellphones again. Allison had her dad’s backpack, which meant easy access to knives and guns, in Derek’s truck. They were safe. And they had no idea what to do.

“We can’t take on an entire prison, Peter,” said Lydia. “We can’t even handle the terrorists, how are we going to handle the government?”

“There’s your first mistake,” Peter replied, smug. “Those two words are exactly the same, the only difference between the groups is that the government abides by certain rules of engagement. These so-called Patriots don’t bother. So... think like them.”

“We are _three_ people!” Allison had to work hard not to yell. “We can throw out the rules of engagement because we don’t even know them, and it doesn’t change the fact that we have no way inside. We have no way out if we do get inside...”

“ _Not_ true. Lydia had it all planned out,” returned Peter.

Allison had to fight a very strong urge to kill the man and left the room rather than tempt it. Since she hadn’t given back the keys yet, she texted Lydia from Derek’s truck to be sure she was okay and that her friend knew where to find her. Lydia texted back quickly.

_I’m fine._  
_i May kill him though so I’m hiding in the bathroom until he stops._  
_i can’t do anything, Ally. I don’t know what to do. No ideas._

Allison stared at the rapid fire text messages. She knew even less than Lydia did, in every sense, because Allison couldn’t even figure out how to reply to her friend. Basic English failed her as she stared at her phone.

The funny thing was that if Allison hadn’t changed their plans, she and Isaac could have been in New York by now, waiting on a plane to France. She should have been practicing her French with her boyfriend and was instead forgetting how to speak English to her best friend. It had been three days since she had seen Isaac last, and it had been for nothing.

She didn’t really miss him so much, Allison realized. She missed getting laid, the stress release would have been very useful, but it was startling to realize that she didn’t want to start the car and drive back to _him_. She had missed Lydia like crazy for months, wanted to run back to Beacon Hills the moment she found out Stiles was in trouble. But Isaac was left out of the equation, where he was safe, and Allison didn’t want to rush back to him. It was probably just the stress of the last few days, but in that moment, it was telling. It was too much to think about and Allison shoved it away.

Something Peter had said was left poking at the front of her brain when Isaac cleared out, though. She frowned at her phone again.

_did u know my mother was there?_

If Peter had known, Lydia must have known. But Lydia had asked about the graves at the cemetery. She didn’t know. Her phone chirped a moment later.

_i never read the roster list! I was worried about Stiles and Derek!_  
_i was scared._  
_i didn’t want to read the list just to find out who died_

Allison believed Lydia, felt sorry for asking at all. The unformed thought was still brewing, however, and wasn’t leaving her alone.

_but u saw maps? U know where the doors are?_

There was a beat and then another barrage of text messages.

_ya,_  
_but det. Sandburg said the doors are not there_  
_ Maybe the stuff I know is all wrong_  
_I’M GOING TO KILL PETER._  
_BRING ME SOMETHING_

The request was a surprise and Allison reached for the bag on instinct before reconsidering. She read the text again and heard exasperation in her friend’s text, not alarm or danger. On second thought, Allison left the guns where they were. But she rested her hand on metal and pulled it out of the bag, curious. Handcuffs. Because why exactly did her dad have handcuffs in his emergency pack? Allison shook her head, fairly certain she didn’t want to know. So many things she didn’t want to know.

Instead, she replied to Lydia’s text.

_why? It won’t work_

Lydia still seemed distressed when she wrote back.

_becuz he won’t SHUT UP!!!!!! about getting them out_  
_ we can’t do it_  
_ and I can’t help my pack_  
_and I need to chop out his tongue_

Allison stared at the texts a long time after that, surprised by what Lydia had said. Violent impulses aside, it was a surprise to learn that Lydia had a pack. Like the werewolves. And with Stiles and Derek, when she always acted like she didn’t have time for either of them.

But Allison didn’t usually do more than roll her eyes at Stiles, either, and yet there she was, in Washington, trying to help him. Risking her family. Risking her own life. Trying to help her friends.

It suddenly made a lot of sense, even though none of it made any sense at all. Still, she started digging through the emergency pack with one hand and texting Lydia back with the other.

_u trust me, right?_

The handcuffs come back out. Along with a really big knife and the box of wolfsbane bullets. Her phone beeped.

_leaning toward hate_  
_cuz u won’t kill PfknH_  
_for me?_  
_pls?_

Smile tugging at her lips, Allison tucked the knife in the sheath in her boot. The bullets and handcuffs went in her bag.

_we already tried that. Didn’t work. I’ve got a better idea_  
_but don’t ask. You’ll see_  
_just trust me_

And then Allison locked Derek’s truck and headed back inside. Her phone said it was almost 1am. Still five hours to dawn. They had a lot of time to kill. And if she was going to be even half way successful, she was going to need at least a little sleep. She would take a nap and then... well, then she was going to have to be crazier than Peter. Because that was the only way she and her friends were going to survive the suicide run slowly plotting out a course in her mind.

 

****


	23. Chapter 23

Around daylight, Jim crawled back through the opening in the pipe. He had a rough idea of what to look for now, and an estimate on distance from the folder of paper Stiles had ferreted away. He even had Talia’s blessing to explore and report back, though she was waiting for him, so it didn’t imply much trust. But still, there was progress. She wanted to go with him and Jim wouldn’t let her do it. He needed his senses primed, and having someone sloshing around in the water with him would have made it impossible.

So it was just Jim in the drain pipe at dawn, his sight dialed up in the dark and his sense of smell dialed down. He tracked daylight by following the tiniest spark of any reflection on any surface. He listened for road sounds, which meant he had to walk slow so he didn’t zone out trying to keep the volume up without becoming incapacitated by a careless splash or tumble in the water. The echo alone would be deafening in the pipe.

As he had the day before, Jim chased down a few dead ends in the tunnel, but this time, he sketched out a rough map on the back of one of Stiles’ papers. They couldn’t exactly leave breadcrumbs in a drain pipe. It wasn’t the work of a cartographer, but considering it was done in the dark, on the move, with a pencil scrounged from Claudia’s pile of hoarded trinkets, Jim figured it would get the point across.

With the dead ends he had run into along the way, Jim couldn’t tell how far away he was from the den when he finally found the end of the drain tunnel. After a certain point, he saw the traces of light flickering across the water, and the closer he got, the brighter it got. His eyes hadn’t fully adjusted by the time he found the grate, but he knew he looked out at a weed-grown drainage ditch, and just over the edge of it, an open field and a cloudy sky.

No walls.

Jim caught the grate door in both hands and shook, testing the hinges as he looked for the latch. The door rattled, so the hinges hadn’t rusted, and the latch was safeguarded by a chain and master lock. If Talia or Claudia couldn’t take care of the lock, Jim knew Blair could bring him a lockpick set and they would be home free.

The only remaining barrier was getting Stiles and Derek out. Maybe they could get a few people out at a time, buy Blair a few days to figure out how to get the boys out of Ward Six. Eventually the people in the yard who weren’t part of Talia’s pack would figure out that there were prisoners missing, so the den and access to the pipe would have to be destroyed before they left, and Jim hadn’t figured out how to arrange that yet, so he still needed time anyway. The drainage ditch wasn’t going anywhere. They had time. For the first time in years, things were looking up.

Jim splashed loudly through the muck as he made his way back to the den. He knew where he was going this time and didn’t have to pay as close attention, leaving no threat of a zone. It didn’t take long to get back, maybe twenty minutes. He crawled out of the pipe tired and reeking of smells he didn’t want to think about, but it didn’t matter. They had a way out. He even had a map.

As promised, Talia waited. “Well?”

“How long was I gone?” Jim asked. He climbed down from the pipe, handed her the map. Talia seemed surprised as she looked at it.

“I’d guess a little over an hour,” she said.

“Well, my best guess, maybe a mile from here, the pipe drains to a ditch. I can’t tell how far though. That thing goes around the whole building, it doesn’t go in a straight line,” Jim said. He tapped at the paper in her hands. “If it’s got an X marked, that’s a dead end. Should save us some time going out.”

“That’s it?” Talia asked. It was just the two of them, not even Claudia around as her shadow. She wasn’t in alpha-bitch mode. She actually seemed worried. “All we have to do is walk a mile and we’re out?”

Jim nodded, shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. There’s a gate at the end, but if you guys can’t take care of a MasterLock, we get Blair to bring my pick kit. Nobody’s the wiser.”

Talia looked up at him then, expression still doubtful. “No traps?”

“Not that I found. The place isn’t Alcatraz or somethin’, no furnace fires under the boiler room here. Nobody’s supposed to break through six inches of concrete to bust into a drain pipe, Talia. This seemed pretty damn legit,” replied Jim.

“Then we can go? We just get the boys and we go,” said Talia. Jim nodded.

“We gotta give Blair a chance to get them back, yeah,” he said. “I figure we can send a few out at a time. Get a feel for how the rest of the yard reacts to the pack disappearing. Buys us time.”

“You really think he can do that?” Talia asked. “He didn’t think so.”

“I think I’m not leaving until they all do,” replied Jim. “So you take the pack and scout out, find some place to hole up, and me and the boys will catch up when we can.”

“Go where? We’re in the middle of nowhere. I know the name of the nearest town but don’t have a clue where the town is. I can’t just cut everybody loose in the woods.”

“I still have some battery left on the phone,” said Jim. “I’ll call Simon. He’ll help. You still trust him at least, right?”

“Yes, damnit, I trust Simon! I trust _you_ , and Blair, Jim! That’s why you’re here!” Talia seemed to mean it, her frustration genuine even though her voice was a harsh and aggravated whisper. “But what exactly do you expect Simon to be able to do with twenty people? Twenty _fugitives_? My pack is hurt, Jim. They are scared. I can’t let them out and not stay within sight of them. Some of them haven’t been outside these walls in ten years, and civilization of any kind will terrify them. They can’t just come back to life-“

It was nice to learn Talia was factoring her pack in to her plans for the tunnel. It wasn’t just about running. Maybe Jim was reading her wrong on some of the alpha-bitch stuff. He didn’t have to admit that out loud though. He checked the phone again. Still two bars of battery.

“Maybe that’s why we call Simon then. You and me are in here, he’s out there. But you’ve got the pack to worry about, and I’ve got Blair and those boys. We’re too close to the problem. He’s been helping Blair, so maybe he’ll have some perspective, something.”

“You put him at risk, Jim,” Talia replied. She wasn’t arguing though. She was tired, thinking it through, and grasping at the same straws Jim was. It was an obligatory moment of caution that Jim had already entertained.

“Considering everything he’s done already just to get Blair this far in, he’s already at risk,” Jim pointed out. “Driving the getaway car won’t add much to the verdict if he gets caught.”

Talia actually laughed a little at that. “I was never charged with anything. None of us were. He can’t get in any legal trouble for picking up hitchhikers on the road. But it’s not the law I’m worried about.”

Jim saw her point but couldn’t do anything about it. He shrugged it off. “Everything about this place is guilt by association, Talia. Simon’s been on their radar for years. And if he’s willing, that’s his choice.”

The woman nodded, keeping her opinion to herself because Jim had made up his mind. She waved the paper in her hand, Jim’s messy map.

“So we’re doing this.”

Jim nodded. “I’ll talk to Simon. And Blair, if he shows up. We can stall if we have to. But if things go our way, we’re all out of here by tomorrow morning.”

Talia looked like she wanted to laugh again, unamused by his hopeful tone. Things hadn’t gone their way in years, so it was reckless to think they could. But she nodded. They had a plan.

 

*****

 

It wasn’t like Blair and _sleep_ had been getting along for the past month. His brain was in constant overdrive, which made getting to sleep nearly impossible. When he did manage to it, the second he started dreaming he would wake himself up trying to _fix_ the dream. It was rough. The dream of the fire and the wolves didn’t fully go away when Blair tried getting back to sleep. He found himself looking for the wolves.

He woke up mentally tired but at least physically rested. And he woke up to another heart attack. This time it wasn’t his phone going off that woke him, but instead a stranger in his face, shaking him by the jacket collar and yelling at him.

“Where the hell are they!”

Very jarring.

“Uhm... I don’t know!”

Blair blinked to try to focus past the sleep and the man caught him by the shoulder to drag him upright.

“The girls! They were here last night, and then you got here,” the man said. Blair recognized Jericho from the Patriots then, the man looming in his face. “How’d you get them out?”

“I didn’t get them out!” Blair argued. “I went to sleep! Damn, man, you can’t even keep track of those kids from the third floor of an apartment building?”

And despite his better sense, Blair started laughing. He suddenly understood how a jailbreak might seem like a good idea to a teenager who could somehow magically apparate out of a locked room on the third floor with no fire escape. “How the hell did they get out? You said they were in my room, right? There’s no way out there...”

Jericho wasn’t so amused. He let go of Blair’s jacket collar and stepped back, holding out a gun aimed at Blair’s forehead a second later. Blair sobered up quickly, held his hands up to show they were empty and he was no threat.

“Keep laughing,” Jericho challenged him. Blair wasn’t finding anything to laugh at just then.

“Hey, man, you still need me to get into the building, right? This isn’t the best idea right here...” he said. Jericho nodded, his anger not faded.

“And we’ve still got their daddy, so those girls will come crawling back before too long,” the man said. “Don’t get comfortable thinking you’re off the hook, cop. You still gotta get us a way into that ward.”

“I told you, there’s no way in! I mean, I can maybe get you through the loading bay door, but that’s right next to security! It won’t do you any good to get in through prisoner processing!”

Blair watched as the muzzle of the gun was lined up between his eyes and pressed to his forehead. “We want Kincaid. You get us in where he is.”

“How? I’m noticing you guys don’t listen so great when I do tell you what I know,” Blair replied. Jericho raised the gun and dragged it down against the side of his head for the sass.

“Get your shit and get to work.”

 

****


	24. Chapter 24

The lights flickered on as the warning of someone at the door. Derek sat with his back against the overturned bed frame, the mattress rolled out on the floor under him to further brace it in place against the door. It wouldn’t stop anyone fully determined to get in, but it was enough weight and bulk to make the job harder. Derek shoved at Stiles’ shoulder beside him, wondering if he had any magical sensory way of knowing who had turned the light on. Stiles looked over at him and nodded.

“It’s Blair. He brought food,” said Stiles. Surprised, Derek rolled to his feet to confirm. Sure enough, there was Blair at the window. The man offered a half hearted smile as he knocked on the glass. Then he held up a paper bag with rather universally recognizable grease stains. With Stiles still sitting on the mattress, Derek dragged it away from the bed frame to make room to right it again.

“How the hell could you tell?” he asked. He was careful to keep his voice quiet. Stiles grinned at him and scratched at the end of his nose while Derek righted the overturned bed frame. Once it was out of the way, Blair let himself in.

“Good idea. With the bed. It worked?” he asked. He tossed the food bag at Derek as Stiles wrestled the mattress back in place on the bed.

“Yep,” said Derek. He dug unto the bag to find at least three meals. Stiles didn’t seem as happy as he did to see the food. He stared at Blair, arms crossed.

“I smell blood.”

Blair checked that the door was closed and then waved off the question. “Yeah, yeah, you’re good. I get it. Quit showing off.”

The breakfast burrito lost Derek’s attention. Even Stiles was baffled by the annoyed response from Blair.

“That- that wasn’t showing off,” said Stiles. “That was just an observation. Every time we see you lately-”

“Well, when somebody takes a chunk of metal about this big,” Blair held his hands apart about eight inches in illustration. “And that’s how they wake you up in the morning, sometimes it cuts skin, yes. So can we make less with the observations maybe?”

The news didn’t go over well but Derek looked to Stiles in silence. There wasn’t actually anything they could do about it.

“Can you, maybe, make less-” Stiles motioned to mimic the size of the chunk of metal Blair had alluded to. “- _that_ with the new roommates or something? I dunno, maybe? I mean-“

Blair reached over and put a hand over Stiles’ mouth, then looked to Derek. “New subject. I wasn’t sure what to get, and the nearest drive thru is about an hour away, so hopefully that’s all still okay. And I got bland for him, so make sure you don’t eat his.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes but he took the hint. Caught in the odd situation of siding with Stiles’ concern for Blair’s safety and Blair’s concern for Stiles’ wellbeing, Derek stood awkwardly holding the bag and mentally stuck. Stiles didn’t seem too offended so Derek focused on the food.

“Uh. It’s food,” he said. “I don’t think we care.”

“How bland is bland?” cut in Stiles. He waved an arm to get out from behind Blair and reached for the food in the offing. “I might.”

“Eat now. We’ll talk in a minute. I wanna make sure you don’t starve again,” said Blair. That seemed fair and nobody argued.

While they ate, Blair leaned against the wall by the door. He was anxious, kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Stiles inhaled his food and Derek wrapped the extra foil-wrapped meals back up in the paper sack. He even rolled the top of it, made it as small as possible, and burrowed it away out of sight so they had something later.

“So I checked on the changeling. He doesn’t seem to have changed much. I don’t think the thing the other day made any difference,” said Blair.

“I don’t care. I might as well try,” said Stiles. “That’s what we’re up here for, isn’t it? The worst case scenario is it works and we get somebody on our side.”

“That somebody’s MO is lighting shit on fire and causing absolute chaos,” replied Blair. “So I can’t actually say I’m a fan.”

“I want to go _back to the yard_ ,” said Stiles. “That’s what I’m a fan of.”

Blair nodded, in apparent agreement. “From what his file said, that guy will burn the building down and the yard with it.”

Stiles snorted, rolled his eyes. “Oh no, stop, don’t burn down the walls,” he said with somehow zero emotion. It amused Derek but he let the sarcasm pass.

“I want to talk to the guy first,” said Derek. That got their attention. He pointed at Stiles. “You don’t get to open your brain up to a demon without me getting a vote. Pack of two. _You_ said so.”

“Okay, well, _that_ presents a problem,” said Stiles. “Also, he’s fae, not a demon.”

Derek shook his head as he looked between them. He looked to Blair, figuring he was the easier sell on the idea.

“Lycan MindMeld,” he said. “I want to talk to whatever this thing is. If it wants to talk to him using my face, it can talk to me, too.”

Eyebrow raised in a look that was quite like a Hale, Blair looked to Stiles. “That’s a fair point.”

“Yeah, _and_? How?” Stiles asked. Blair held up his hands, blameless for the suggestion and likely clueless in the application. Stiles turned the question to Derek. He shrugged.

“He’s got a husk. He’s asking you to jump start it. There’s some connection there for me to tap into,” he said.

Blair seemed to catch up then. He imitated a clawed hand with his own. “Wait. You’re gonna do the- uh... that won’t go over so well with-”

“So don’t ask,” said Derek. Blair blinked at him.

“This is not a good place to rely on the theory that forgiveness is better than permission,” said Blair.

“Okay, well, then you get _permission_ by telling her that what stands between her and her changeling is Stiles, and what stands between Stiles and her changeling is me,” Derek replied. He stood up to his full height and crossed his arms, just to make his point. Stiles smacked at his arm to brush him aside and quickly cradled his hand to his chest as his knuckles complained.

“Goddamn rock,” Stiles muttered. “Did you have to?”

Derek smirked at him for it. Blair looked from one to the other.

“Nice pitch. But you realize it’s our necks on the line, right? If it goes wrong...”

“The husk is already _not_ alive, it can’t exactly get more braindead than it already is,” Stiles pointed out. That seemed to work.

The logic won out and Blair agreed. And he wasn’t even going to ask permission. To sweeten the deal when they eventually got busted for it, and because he was afraid to leave Stiles somewhere unsupervised where Falwell could get him, Blair even dragged Stiles with them to the changeling’s cell across the hall.

Apparently the warden did occasionally listen to Blair. After the explosion, all non-essential lab equipment had been moved out of the changeling’s easy grasp. All that remained was an IV drip and a heart monitor. If she didn’t believe it had been the changeling’s fault and not Stiles’ fault, she was at least hedging her bets. Derek hadn’t seen it happen, but he had spent the night hiding out of sight of the fishbowl windows of their cell, so that wasn’t a surprise.

What was a surprise, though, was the changeling. The husk looked like Derek, but it wasn’t like looking in a mirror. It was more like looking at a cousin. Even on a hospital bed, under a pile of cotton blankets, the man looked broad-shouldered and tall. Even his face looked taller, his jaw not as wide. For Derek, it was eerie. It was also familiar. This was the version of himself that he had seen in Stiles’ head. He had locked the man now on the bed in the office with Claudia.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” asked Stiles. Derek shook his head.

“Tell you later.”

Stiles punched him in the arm for it but Derek didn’t mind; the guy broadcast ahead of time so he just flexed his muscles enough that Stiles would regret it. As Stiles scowled at him for the trick, Blair levered the end of the bed up so that the changeling was almost sitting. Then he stepped back and waved Derek toward the not-quite-a-clone.

“This is one of those now-or-never kind of things, so...” he said. Blair looked anxious, and Derek realized belatedly that the warden probably monitored the door on the changeling’s cell. It was her project, after all. She probably had the place bugged, and they had already seen the cells were monitored by cameras.

In hindsight, this wasn’t Derek’s smartest plan.

But they were committed to it now. Derek moved to stand beside the bed and then, after a few deep breaths, he tried to access what he could of a husk’s memories.

It was nothing like looking for Stiles through the zoneout. There was no rush of emotions or sensory information to cut through. It was like Derek found himself in a black hole, an empty cavern. There was nothing there. It was discouraging. The husk was just a husk, with no memories attached, so how was Stiles supposed to jump start it to life?

“Oh, the husk is alive,” a voice echoed in the cavern, like it was reading Derek’s thoughts. “I need the spark to prime the wiring, that’s all.”

Derek looked around for a source of the voice. Gradually, a light caught his attention and slowly came into focus, like someone was walking in from a far off end of the cavern. As the light got closer, Derek recognized the changeling with his face, all glowing light on tan skin. The man even wore a white suit to be just that little bit extra bright. But as he got closer, he didn’t look like Derek anymore. He was taller, slimmer, not as strong, but wider shoulders. They had similar eyes and dark hair, but the changeling’s eyes were silver.

“What do you mean by that?” Derek asked. “I want to know what you want from him.”

“He’s a spark, my dear boy. I don’t want anything from him. I don’t wish to hurt him. Oh, no, no. Just calm your little mind about that,” said the man, almost cheerful. He shook his head, all business about the matter. “No, I’m taking nothing from him. He’s just harnessing the energy I need. _Directing_ a little more my way. I mean, give me the credit I am due. I _built_ a body. From dirt and slime. Considering what I had to work with, this is an impressive feat, I assure you.”

Derek stared at him, not feeling impressed so much as concerned, but he tried not to think that too loudly. The changeling huffed in apparent annoyance.

“Look around,” the man said with a wave at the empty space. “A mind should have memories. It should have the weight of a soul to attach to. It should have some shred of something for me to tie my little horse and buggy to and move in. And instead... empty. Nothing. I repeat, _this_ is constructed of dirt and slime, mere clay. I can’t interact with anything in this husk because there’s nothing to interact with. The heart operates the circulation but doesn’t provide enough to support life.”

“So why can’t they just blast you with the crash cart and amp up the electricity?” said Derek.

“Electricity is the conduit, but it’s not the soul,” said the changeling. He sighed. “Might as well sit. This could take awhile.”

Just before Derek could ask where he was supposed to sit, the scenery changed. Something hit the back of his legs, knocking him down. He sat on a large log. Around him, it was dusk, casting long shadows across an open field at the base of some foothills Derek didn’t know. He looked up and saw a massive tree above him, an old and sprawling oak with low branches supporting a full canopy. There were no trees around this one, allowing the roots to climb out around it and dig deeper further out. Looking at it, Derek thought it would take at least ten people to surround the tree, arms out wide to reach each other. The base of the oak dwarfed some of the giant sequoias he had seen on the coast. He didn’t know much about trees, but he knew oaks didn’t get that big naturally.

In the shadow of the day, he saw a spark of electricity dance over the trunk. It warped a little, not cutting sharp like true electricity, but instead a colorful spot in the air that made a barrier between him and the tree, amplifying and blurring like water.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, distracted.

“Oh dear. This will take longer than I thought,” said the changeling on a sigh. “That is a _tree_ , my dear boy. It has tall branches that reach out into the sky and scrub the air, collect nutrients and energy and toxins. It pulls the same things from the earth in the roots. And it processes everything to produce air, to produce life.”

“I know what a tree is, idiot,” growled Derek. He stood and moved to point out the anomaly that repeated itself across the bark. “I meant this! _This_ is not what trees do!”

The changeling moved over to examine it with him, acted as baffled as Derek was. And then he shoved Derek’s hand through the warped illusion to press his palm against the bark.

“This is what trees do. It is your _nemeton_. This is _life_. You and your plebeian brain can’t see it. That’s why I’m _showing_ you. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You want to know what the spark is for, _this_ is what I need from him,” the changeling said.

“He’s not a tree,” said Derek. “He doesn’t do _this_.”

“No, he’s a diluted dryad. Maybe even sixty generations ago, his ancestors protected trees. The Mother Tree still talks to him. She has a long memory. He and others like him are allowed the powers of nature to protect her as they see fit,” the changeling replied. “Sparks pull people together, because together is stronger, and stronger is safer. Tree to tree, creature to creature. Nature needs a network. Sparks provide the relay points. And I need this one to setup the network connections in my husk. Simple as that.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“Let’s poison _you_ for half a century, then, and see how well you produce life. An adult-sized life, no less. Maybe adult was pushing it, but this place wouldn’t have allowed me to grow,” returned the changeling. He was bitter, so Derek had hit the nerve. The one that would indicate what they would have to deal with when the thing had a body it could control.

“So you used up all your mojo getting the husk this far. Now you need the tree to finish the job. So you have an adult body instead of a baby body. And you can cause an adult level of chaos,” said Derek.

“First of all, that assessment is _hardly_ fair. You don’t know me. I’m sensing a lot judgment I don’t feel I’ve earned,” said the changeling. “Secondly, as a child of the Old Ones, I do not cause _chaos_. I deliver _reckonings_. There is a difference.”

Derek stared at him, stuck suddenly in a field of potential land mines with a fae talking about reckonings. This was not a seelie court fae. _Reckonings_ were very close to the matter of demons. The man smiled his charming, eerie smile.

“Stay with your pack and you’ll be fine,” the changeling assured him.

“We don’t have one,” said Derek, not at all comforted.

“Yes you do. The spark draws the pack. Someone just has to lead them to keep them,” replied the stranger. That wasn’t exactly reassuring either.

Derek startled as the tree beside them lit up in an angry surge, lights dancing along the smooth bark. The changeling raised an eyebrow at it, watched the tree a moment. Then he said, “You should go.”

With that, the valley around them disappeared. Derek stood in the empty cavern again, surrounded by darkness.

 

****

 

The silent alarms going off in the cell block outside Jim’s cell was a concern. Freshly showered and fed, Jim rushed to make it into the block before the lockdown happened. He was hoping for Blair to show up, and the odds were pretty good lately that a lockdown meant Blair. He didn’t quite make it into his cell and ended up standing just outside of it as the door slid closed. A moment later the gas chamber entry door opened. A scowling man limped inside to get out before the doors closed again, no guards accompanying him. Jim could smell the blood on him. That was not a good sign, but at least the bloody one wasn’t Blair this time.

But it wasn’t Blair.

Blood or not, that was a risk to Jim. He tended to lose unarmed fights against monsters more often than he cared to admit. And statistically speaking, anyone entering the cellblock who wasn’t Blair was most likely some category of fighting monster. Jim watched, careful and concerned, as he waited for the new guy to make a move.

The door closed and the alarm lights stopped, which Jim was thankful for. One less thing for his senses to keep track of. But then the man at the end of the hall let out an angry yell. And the cell doors hadn’t opened yet, leaving Jim stuck in the corridor with the angry, bloody newcomer. When the man moved to stand again, quiet, he seemed to be standing straighter. The bruising on his face had faded. He could heal like a wolf, so Jim felt safe in assuming it was another werewolf.

The man set his eyes on Jim and walked down the hall. The cell doors rattled open along the block then, which meant the way out was clear, but Jim knew better than to turn his back on somebody he didn’t know in this place. He waited at the door of his cell, hoping the man would pass by, that there would be no problems.

Instead, the new guy stopped right in front of him. He sniffed.

“Who are you?” he asked. “The welcoming committee?”

“Nope. Normally new blood comes in on Thursdays. You didn’t call ahead,” Jim returned. He raised a hand and pointed toward the end of the block. “Food’s that way.”

The man narrowed his eyes. He waved to his clothes.

“Do I look hungry?” he asked. And he didn’t look like the usual newcomer to the Sanctuary. His clothes were clean, not torn up, and probably not far behind the styles. His hair looked messed up, but it also smelled like shaping gel. Rich boy werewolves weren’t common in the Sanctuary.

“Good. The food here sucks,” Jim replied. The new guy seemed to accept that. He didn’t seem as likely to tear Jim’s head off, either.

“Do I know you?” he asked. “You smell familiar.”

Jim looked down at his clothes. He had just been climbing through a drainage ditch that morning, and shower or not, that left an aroma. Definitely a wolf if the guy could smell anything familiar under the leftover smell of dank water. But given the people Jim spent his time around, that narrowed down the potential source of familiarity.

“I don’t know you,” Jim said. “Who are you? Let’s start with that.”

“Peter Hale,” the man offered without hesitation. “My nephew and sister are here.”

Jim rolled his eyes and had to physically fight the urge to find a wall to beat his head against. Instead, he moved away from the cell bars and started walking toward the door at the end of the corridor. “Come on. I’ll take you to Talia.”

The man hesitated. He stood in the hallway, surprise on his face. Jim stopped to wait, even waved him on. “Let’s go.”

“Wait... are you serious?” Peter asked. “It’s _that_ easy?”

Jim snorted and nodded. “The dead come to life around this place all the time. It's like magic or something.”

The full grown, adult, rich-boy werewolf trotted after Jim then like an eager puppy. As they got to the cafeteria, Jim caught somebody staring at the new blood, covered in _actual_ blood, following him. He kept his attention on the potential troubles and only glanced at the new Hale.

“Do you have the same control as Derek and Talia?” he asked. Peter scoffed.

“Of course.”

“Then you might want to prove it. You smell like a buffet in this place. And I can’t help you with that,” said Jim. He intentionally didn’t look back as the man did whatever wolfy thing he thought necessary to deter unwanted strangers. It worked well enough, as Jim watched the regular problem creatures settle down and pass on the fight they had been stewing for.

When they got to the yard, Jim added some speed. And, because it was easier to get away with it outside, he yelled out for Talia. Just in case she heard him before he saw her.

“Jim!” Claudia called out. She sounded worried and Jim stopped to get his bearings, try to figure out which direction was the echo and which was the actual source of the warning. He caught sight of the werewolf with him then and recoiled from the unexpected face.

“Woah!” He stopped himself before making the observation that the werewolf was one of the uglier, mean looking ones. So far the teeth were out but they weren’t aimed at his neck, and he wanted to keep it that way. When he looked around again for Claudia, he found her, and Talia, headed their way.

“Back off!” Talia ordered, and for a moment Jim was confused. He stepped away from the newcomer as Talia shifted to show fangs like the werewolf behind him did. Then Jim realized the problem. He held up his hands as though to break up a brewing fight between werewolves.

“Wait a minute! Hang on...” Jim said. “I’m fine! Stand down! This guy’s just injured and we had to get through the mess hall.”

Beside him, the newcomer - fangs still out - started laughing. And then slowly, the ugly, distorted, werewolf mask rearranged and faded to show the normal, pretty-boy rich guy. Talia’s wolf-face faded away showing a cautious surprise.

“Peter?” asked Claudia. Again, Jim heard surprise in the woman’s voice, but still caution. “Are you really here? How...”

So it seemed Peter Hale wasn’t the most welcome family member. Jim had heard some talk about the Hale family dynamics but not much. He backed off to wait with Claudia for some sign from Talia. The woman stood in the middle of the yard, in the mid-morning hum of daily business, just staring like she had to make up her mind what to do about the new stranger. For his part, Peter didn’t seem surprised.

“Allison Argent pulled a double-cross worthy of her dear mother,” said Peter. “I helped the girls get away from bad guys with guns, and in return, Allison stabbed me in the leg and drugged me with aconite, so she could drop me off here.”

Talia actually grinned at the story. “That does sound like her mother.”

“I’m glad it at least amuses you,” said Peter.

“I take what I can get, which isn’t much,” replied Talia. “What about Blair? Was he involved with the bad guys with guns part of the equation?”

“I followed him from here to find the girls, but we left him at his place. For all I know of this mess, he is the bad guy with the guns,” said Peter. Jim scoffed at that and dismissed it.

“Blair was fine when I talked to him last night,” Jim told Talia. “I’ll try to track him down.”

“You should do that. Because this might have changed a few things with the plan,” said Talia. Jim nodded.

“Dollars to donuts the Patriots weren’t happy about it,” he replied. “And we still don’t know what they’re doing with Lydia’s information.”

Peter brightened up at that, like they had touched on a topic he knew something about it. “Nothing, actually. They’re waiting on Blair to get them inside. The plans say there’s a door into Ward Six or something, but Blair says it doesn’t exist and he hasn’t given them traffic access to it. According to Lydia, it’s screwed her whole plan. That’s why she gave up. _And_ why I told the warden the little huntress was a banshee. That went over well.”

Talia looked to Jim but neither of them said anything about it. She waved her brother forward, as much of a welcome as he was apparently going to get. “We can talk about it later. Let’s go inside. Get you informed on how things work in the Sanctuary, brother.”

Claudia waited with Jim as Talia pulled away to give her brother the tour. Jim heard something about getting the blood off of him now that he had healed, so it was probably going to be awhile before they made it to the den.

“Lydia’s a banshee?” Claudia wondered aloud as they walked toward the den. “Stiles’ Lydia?”

Jim shrugged. “I think I remember the boys saying something about it. And it won’t go over well that she’s here.”

Claudia caught at Jim’s arm to pull him to a stop. “If that was true... why wasn’t she put with him out here?”

Jim caught her hand to offer reassurance. “They didn’t know what to do with Stiles when McCall brought him in, either. The warden kept talking about an observation period and called in Sandburg. She’ll be fine.”

Claudia didn’t look like she believed him on it, but she started walking again. She hugged his arm in a silent show of thanks as he escorted her to the den. Jim played the gentleman and kept quiet, kept his concerns to himself. The kids were well and truly stuck, and the addition of Lydia just complicated things more.

It highlighted the problem of Peter Hale for him, though; they had a rat on their hands. Anyone who held information as a commodity in prison became a liability to anyone planning an escape. For now, the escape had to be put on hold. And all Jim could do was hope Talia knew how to handle her brother.

 

******


	25. Chapter 25

For all Blair was fascinated by the werewolfian trick of hacking people’s brains, he was anxious as hell watching Derek try it on the changeling. Stiles scratched at the healing stab-wounds in the back of his neck as he supervised the both of them. He couldn’t help it. He kept tabs on Derek, checking in on his heart rate and his scent even though Stiles knew of no brilliant ways to cut the memory-hack if Derek showed distress. And on top of that, he kept monitoring Blair’s presence, too, and comparing what he picked up. He was lucky he didn’t zone.

But the thought that Blair was maybe Derek’s dad didn’t leave him alone and Stiles kept working the puzzle over in his brain. There had to be some proof. At this point, Stiles knew Derek wouldn’t trust anything Talia tried to tell him. They had to have some tangible identifier that Derek could compare on his own. Some scent. Some movement or nervous tell in common.

They were in a _black site laboratory_ that specialized in playing science, so they could run some _simple genetic testing_...

Stiles realized two seconds too late that he had actually made the observation out loud. He bit his knuckles and checked to be sure Derek was still under. Derek was going to kill him. Blair blinked at him like he wasn’t sure he had heard the question.

“Say that again? Test for what?”

Stiles quickly shook his head. “ _I_ didn’t say anything.”

Arms crossed already from general anxiousness of hijacking the warden’s pet project, Blair shut his eyes and facepalmed like a master. His heart rate went up, though. He had heard the question just fine. And if he was avoiding it as hard as Stiles was, Blair knew something he and Derek didn’t.

“We could though, right?” Stiles asked. Blair looked up but kept his hand over his mouth because of the cameras in the room.

“I’m not even supposed to talk to _Jim_. You want to _document_ the bias for them and let us all hang?” He stayed quiet and muffled, but Stiles heard clear enough.

“Are you- is it- _really_?” was the only coherence he managed. Blair shrugged, shifting nervously as he stood watching them.

“Don’t know. I can’t exactly go to the source on it at the moment, either,” said Blair. He shook his head and then had to physically unfold from the effort he was putting into playing it cool and not rattled. “Can we _not_ , with _this_ , right _now_?”

Stiles nodded, then had another question he wanted to ask, so he shook his head, and then he thought better about it and nodded his head in agreement again. He hesitated. Then he waved a hand between them.

“We’re cool though still, right?”

Blair stared at him a moment, like he wanted to facepalm again, but he didn’t. It finally seemed to hit his max and he waved from Stiles to Derek as if the answer was obvious.

“Why would we _not be_?” he asked, seeming genuinely baffled.

“I mean, with the...” Stiles trailed off on the list. If Blair didn’t have one, he didn’t need to provide it. He crossed his arms and started gnawing at a thumbnail in an effort not to pace, fidget, or otherwise tempt fate by talking to Blair unsupervised.

Movement in the hall caught his attention and Stiles looked back over his shoulder to look at the thick, distorted glass windows. He thought he saw the warden and started trying to find a blanket or something to throw over Derek’s head in at least a little bit of an effort at hiding what he was doing.

But then Stiles saw the two guards with her. And the very familiar strawberry blonde they escorted.

“What the shit!” Stiles just barely managed to keep it quiet. It was still enough to scare Blair. He startled and Stiles repeated himself, more quietly, as he pointed to the door being opened by the outside locking system.

“Oh... crap...” said Blair. For the second time that day, the man confirmed Stiles’ concerns with very little to say. A moment later, the door opened, and the warden walked in. Along with Lydia Martin.

Stiles started to go toward her but Blair caught him by the shoulder to keep him back. He was probably trying to block easy access to see what Derek was up to, but Stiles had forgotten that part of their problems just then. He caught on quick and backed up until he bumped into Derek’s leg where the man stood beside the bed. With his claws still buried in a husk’s neck and his brain somewhere else science could never prove.

“Ohshit,” Stiles said under his breath. The warden stood in the room, staring at them, one eyebrow arched in open suspicion.

“Blair... I’ve become the dumping ground for Beacon Hills, California, it seems,” the warden said. “But this one is at least something new. And I’m a little surprised that I had to bring her here to find you.”

The greeting was awkward and Blair was distracted. His attention, like Stiles’, was split three ways, between Derek, the warden, and the very confusing presence of Lydia. Blair tried to stay on-task, though. “I, uh, wanted to see if Stiles was up for trying to talk to the-“ He started to point at the body on the bed but was quick to remember not to call attention to Derek. He kept his attention on the warden. “Uh... I’m sorry, what’s she doing here? Exactly?”

There was a cough and a gasp from Derek and Stiles turned quickly to see him back in the present and getting his bearings. He caught Derek’s hands and pulled them down behind his back, between their bodies as he stood in front of Derek. _Nothing to see there, the warden could just look away, find something else..._

The woman, unfortunately, wasn’t an idiot. When she threatened to have Stiles and Derek removed from the room, they had to step aside. Blair tried to cover, but it didn’t quite work. There was still a trail of blood on the pillow.

Lydia, standing by the door and attached to her own set of guards, saw the blood on Derek’s hands, Stiles’ hands, and the pillow, and let out a slight screech. Not expecting the sound that echoed around the small cell, Stiles doubled over, hands over his ears as he tried to get the dials back down. Lydia stood with her hands over her mouth, eyes wide as she stared between Derek and a comatose body that still looked a lot like another version of Derek.

Blair moved away to assure Lydia that it was okay, at the same time as the warden saw Stiles’ hands by his ears. She was close enough and caught his hand to keep him from hiding it.

“What the actual hell are you doing in here?” she wanted to know. She looked from Stiles to Derek and then back to Blair, Stiles’ wrist still wrenched in her hand. “Someone has exactly _three seconds_ to start explaining why a _banshee_ just screamed at my changeling and why the fuck is he _bleeding_? We want it alive! Killing-”

“That’s not what he was doing!” said Blair quickly. “Derek was trying to talk to it. Him. Them. _Damnit_.” He was flustered and he looked to Stiles and Derek for help. Derek was awake again but he wasn’t good at confrontation with evil authority figures and Stiles was technically the one at most immediate risk of the woman’s manicure splitting open an artery.

“It’s a thing he can do, okay? It’s totally safe! He did it to me, and I’m fine! See?” Stiles turned enough to try showing the cuts on his neck. The warden didn’t let go of him but she did reach out to move his hair enough to see the proof.

“His vitals are still fine,” Blair pointed out. When Stiles turned around, tried easing from the angry woman’s grasp, she pointed him toward the door.

“You know that one, yes?” she said. “Lydia Martin.”

“Uh...” Stiles wasn’t sure what to say. It was the warden, she was on a first-name-basis with both Blair and Scott’s dad, and she was the bitch who ultimately held the door keys to every single cell he had been shoved in over the past couple of months. What she didn’t already know, she would quickly find out. And yet a traitorous voice in his head told him to offer up no more than a name, rank, and serial number. Which wasn’t actually _helpful_ , since he was missing two out of the three identifiers.

“Yeah. They’re friends at school,” Blair offered up, removing the dilemma, and the potential for punishment. “She’s talked him out of zone outs before.”

“Hey!” Stiles felt defensive of _that_ information for some reason. The warden pointed Stiles toward the door again.

“You. Go show her your room. And don’t barricade the damn door this time,” said the warden. Derek started to move when Stiles did, eager to follow that instruction, but the woman caught him by the arm and kept him where he was. “You _stay_. And Blair stays. And we’re going to have a chat. And establish some goddamned _guidelines_ for how you handle _my_ projects from now on.”

Stiles didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to argue with the chance to get Lydia away from potentially-technically dead-things, either. And he wanted to know why the hell she was in the Sanctuary. And a few other things besides, but first things first. Forgetting the part where he lived in a prison now and hadn’t showered in a week because he had spent most of it in a fishbowl, Stiles automatically took Lydia’s hand and pulled her into a protective hug as he ushered her away.

One of the guards let them out, followed them to where the warden had ordered them to go, and then locked them in. He probably had his proverbial ear to the door and was recording every word, but they had the illusion of privacy anyway. Stiles was very careful with Lydia as she looked around. She looked scared. Her scent said she was terrified. Her hands trembled. Stiles tried to get her to sit down.

“Place is bugged,” he cautioned. She sniffled, like she was too upset to even cry. But she sat down on the floor with him, cross legged so their knees touched, and she held both of his hands like vices that wouldn’t let go. He didn’t push. But he really wanted to know why she was there. She looked like she hadn’t brushed her hair in three days and she was wearing jeans and looked rumpled. He couldn’t tell if the dark around her eyes was smeared makeup or a bruise, but given how rough Blair had looked the last day or so, Stiles was pretty sure it wasn’t makeup.

Lydia shook her head. “We were here to turn in Peter. Ally said she knew what she was doing, to trust her. And then Peter told them I was- I mean, we didn’t think they could tell. We thought it would be okay, but he told them...”

Stiles wanted to wipe her tears and tell her she was safe, but he couldn’t. “Look, Victoria’s down there. We’ll just... have her and Talia kick his ass a few times. She’s gonna be seriously pissed he threatened you guys. _Trust me_.”

Lydia shook her head again and the fear faded to momentary rage. “I will kill him again with my bare fucking hands.”

The promise froze Stiles for a moment because he was absolutely certain Lydia would do it if they gave her the chance. They would have to be very, very careful with her if they ever made it back out to the yard. He let her keep hanging on to his hands but he still reached up to push the hair away from her face, press a kiss to the top of her head. She let go and instead wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.

“I’m glad you guys are okay, though,” she said. Stiles was bewildered and no less amused; at least he wasn’t on the banshee’s death-list like Peter was.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” he said. “It sucks, but we can figure it out. I promise.”

At least that part wasn’t a lie.

 

****

 

When Allison got back in the car, she had money in her purse. Real money. _Cash_. She had actually never seen that many hundred dollar bills in one place before in her life. It fueled a new sort of hatred that she hadn’t fully thought possible before, either.

Peter hadn’t been a problem until they got to the parking lot at the Sanctuary. That’s when he realized they weren’t just going for a look around like she had told him two hours earlier. That’s when he moved to attack first. It was useful for Allison, and she didn’t have any real problems stabbing him in the leg to calm him down. Make him inhale some aconite, tell him the knife was coated in it, and he mostly behaved. Handcuffs were a formality because he was too busy whining.

When she had gone in to get help with getting him out of the truck, she had no idea who to talk to or how to proceed. She was just winging it. Hoping the Sanctuary accepted drop-offs without an appointment. Lydia had stayed in the car to make sure Peter stayed out of trouble, and Allison recruited the Sanctuary staff just by telling a lady at a security desk that she had a werewolf in the car. There was no sideways glance, no questioning her sanity, and the woman had a group of six guys follow Allison back out to the rented SUV. They handled Peter. They upgraded his handcuffs, laid him out on a stretcher, locked him down as one of the guards started poking at the hole in his leg.

It was all going so well until Peter... pulled a _Peter_.

“Banshee... don’t forget the banshee...” he gasped out, a full on Drama-Queen performing for adoring fans. “The _red_ one...”

Allison didn’t even have a chance to say he was crazy. A guard pulled Lydia to the side of the SUV and started checking her for weapons. Another stepped in front of Allison and started talking to her.

“We’ve got things from here, Miss. I need to go with you to the admins and confirm everything. Then we can get you your check and you can get back to what you do.”

Allison had to make a choice. She could either trust Lydia would be put in with Stiles and Derek, with her mother, and they would take care of her. Or she could raise hell, risk herself, make Lydia scream, and still lose to six armed guards trained to deal with werewolves. So she kept quiet. Her friend was marched from the SUV to a big delivery gate usually hidden in the dark parking structure. Allison went to an elevator, then a fancy office, and waited as the man told the clerk there were two unnaturals being checked in.

For the both of them, Allison collected a check in the amount of twenty thousand dollars from Conservatory Technologies Industries International, Inc.

She didn’t sit on that check. She was too afraid of it. It could have had a tracer in it. If anyone found it, it would be lost, and it would have her name on it. It tied her to that place. So she took it to the first bank she found and cashed it out. Cash was clean and she could protect that.

She thought about using it to buy her dad back from the Sunrise Patriots. It had to at least be a possibility. But then she remembered that the Patriots operation she had seen so far was complicated and layered. They were a big player in the world now, and little stacks of hundred dollar bills weren’t going to persuade the organization. Maybe Jericho would think twice about it, but the people who held his leash wouldn’t.

No, they understood just one thing. When Allison got back into Cascade, she found another bank. She opened a safe deposit box in her own name and locked all but a few hundred dollars away inside. She kept enough to negotiate with if Jericho seemed open to the idea. That didn’t seem likely, however. Allison was keeping her options open, but mostly she was convinced that the only way to go was to out-psycho the terrorists. And Allison came from a family with order and rules and strict routines that survived even when the family moved from state to state her whole life. The one constant was how to be normal, how to hide the family’s crazy and fit in. She was not good at being crazy.

But she understood anger. And she understood fear. And she knew she came from a long line of hunters, protectors, and executioners. Allison had her grandfather as an example and an excuse, as if insanity might somehow hide in the bloodline for her to tap into as needed. She had some training and had seen some battles. She could make it work.

Mostly, though, she was stubborn. Allison had survived death once already. That whole new chance at life came with a whole new determination that she would not lose her family to other people’s wars ever again. She would help her friends. And she would let anyone who got in her way know they had made a mistake.

Armed with her father’s crossbow and her mother’s determination, Allison climbed the fire escape outside of Blair’s apartment again. It was an hour after sunset by then. She could see fine, the dark sky and city lights no distraction for her. It didn’t feel natural, but it was manageable. She was focused, no headaches, no weird echoes of thoughts that didn’t seem familiar. She was ready.

The loft had a large floor-to-ceiling window that dominated one wall of the apartment. It looked out on the bay and had a wide porch area that had become partially overgrown with potted plants that were no longer cared for beyond a working drip-watering system. The greenery was overgrown and untamed, ignored. And useful for Allison’s purposes as she crept out onto the porch from the fire escape, unseen thanks to the obscure bushes and vines that had claimed part of the windows as their personal climbing space. She listened for trouble inside and heard nothing out of the usual. Just the TV, and the Sunrise Patriots henchmen swearing at it. She saw her dad, looking beat up and pissed off, with tape over his mouth. It was insulting.

When she was certain she had her plan mapped out in her mind, Allison reached out and opened the door. The Patriot idiots probably hadn’t known it was a door until she showed it to them. They startled, reached for their weapons, and Allison had already fired a bolt at a stranger’s arm. Instead of reach for his gun, he reached for his arm and swore in pain. The crossbow aimed at Jericho then. The man stared at her, surprise shifted to anger.

“So you did come back,” he said. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

Allison smiled sweetly at him. “I got tired of you refusing to help her as she asked... So I turned her in at the Sanctuary myself. I told them she was just another freakshow for their blacksite experiments. And she can figure out how to get herself out.”

That was not the answer either of the two terrorist kidnappers were expecting. The one who had been shot took a few steps back.

“Obviously,” Allison went on, stepping further into the room. “Your plans have now changed. And I don’t care. I’m going to take my dad... and we’re going to _leave_. And if that’s a problem for you, we can all sit right here. Until Detective Sandburg gets back. And then I’ll shoot _him_ and you lose all your insider information in one _very_ bad day.”

Given that Allison had already injured his friend, Jericho looked like maybe he believed her. From the couch, Allison’s dad looked on with very obvious concern, but he didn’t question any of the insanity that Allison was working so hard to ramble out. Instead, he caught the unsheathed Bowie knife that Allison carefully tossed his way. He had about ten layers of tape binding his wrists but he knew his way around a knife well enough to fix that problem without help as Allison kept Jericho concerned about the crossbow.

“That’s bullshit,” said Jericho. “You’re bluffing.”

Allison let another bolt loose and it caught Jericho in the thigh, just enough to sting and bleed a little, but not enough to cause damage. He, like his friend, started swearing at her. They both started backing toward the apartment front door.

“Option three: I shoot one of you, and Detective Sandburg gets back to find he’s a suspect in a _murder_ investigation,” she said. “How quickly do you think you’ll get in to save Garrett Kincaid without any help at all, and the cops in the middle of the Sunrise Patriot’s business, trying to figure out why one of them turned up dead?”

“Not much mystery about who did it when you’re standing right there with a... a bow and arrow,” said Jericho. He added a few more colorful words and Allison just smiled at him.

“You guys should have done your homework better,” she said. “If you’d looked into us at all, you’d know I’m not really here. I _died_ months ago. Are you going to tell the cops a _ghost_ pulled the trigger?”

As distractions went, the effort at spooking the two terrorists seemed to be paying off. They were retreating rather than remember they had manhandled the supposed ghost just the day before. And Chris had plenty of opportunity to reach the handgun that had been left on an end table, because neither of the two terrorists believed in proper gun safety around hostages. Until the moment they had a crossbow and one of their own weapons pointed at them, they had thought themselves too good at their jobs to make a mistake.

Allison stood back as Jericho made a clumsy dodge to get around the coffee table. His partner of the hour, someone Allison hadn’t seen before, took the opportunity and scuttled out the door. Chris caught Jericho under the butt of his own handgun and sent the burly man to the floor. He took out the coffee table when he fell on it, but that was a mild injury compared to what he deserved. Chris kicked him in the knee to make sure he stayed down, and he did. Wary of the missing Patriot minion, Allison kept her attention on the door.

“Where’s Lydia?” Chris asked. He nodded toward the door hanging open. “Is that idiot going to run into her?”

Allison shook her head. “I told you where she is.”

Surprise on his face, Chris looked over at her. “You what.”

Not willing to go into it, Allison shrugged it off. They stood there long enough without attack, and without Jericho making the slightest movement, that her dad got paranoid. He knelt down to check for a pulse and seemed satisfied that the terrorist would survive. Then he grabbed the weapons he could see and started herding Allison back toward the porch.

“We’re gonna have a talk about that. But let’s go,” was all he said. Allison refused to turn her back on Jericho but she followed her dad out the door. They both ran down the fire escape stairs, bruised maybe, but alive.

Apparently, sometimes, going just a little psycho was exactly how to succeed in life.

 

****


	26. Chapter 26

When Miranda said they were going to have a chat, Blair learned, it turned out she just wanted to lecture them about breaking things that weren’t theirs. The hypocrisy was _off the charts_. Blair spent most of that “chat” standing between Miranda and Derek, not because Derek needed leashed in, but because Blair did. At least if he was physically blocking the woman’s access to Derek, he felt like he could be something resembling _useful_. She was just talking, demanding _Derek_ talk, and being her usual level of annoying, so there was nothing else Blair could do. It wasn’t like Derek was a shrinking violet in need of someone to hide behind, but under the circumstances, at that time, it was all Blair could offer, and Derek didn’t seem to mind.

That afternoon, per Miranda’s less than polite requests, Derek told them that he had talked to the changeling. And he said that, according to the man in the coma, Stiles was being used as an energy source. The changeling needed a human _jumpstart_ and could only heal so much at a time. When Derek said the changeling’s husk was made from the detritus that the Sanctuary had been flooding his tank with for years, Miranda looked obscenely joyful and suddenly relaxed. Her excitement was obvious but Derek looked sour, like he was ratting out a friend. The warden wanted to call Stiles back in immediately but Blair shut her down.

“No way Jose. That thing gets to wait,” said Blair. Miranda started to pull rank and Blair wagged an accusing finger in her face. “You just brought in somebody you called a _banshee_. I need to figure out what the hell we’re dealing with from _that_ corner before we go letting Stiles sacrifice his _life force_ to a changeling.”

The wheels turned a few times in Miranda’s head. Her argument faded off before it began. She grudgingly agreed.

“And it should be given some time to heal from the... whatever that was called. With the claws,” she said, dismissive of Derek while still acknowledging her source for her newfound joy. “It made a body from _dirt_ , but it might take a minute to heal the body.”

Blair had stared at her, at a loss for anything resembling understanding, and caught blindly at Derek’s arm behind him to push him toward the door. “Right. We’re going now.”

And they made it to collect Lydia without further incident. Blair was solidly concerned about Miranda’s sanity but not enough to do anything about it. She had made her own bed and that was not ever going to be his problem. The second Blair and Derek stepped foot in the cell with Stiles and Lydia, though, he had another problem entirely. Still a female one, just younger and hopefully still sane at least. And Stiles practically met him at the door.

“I need you to get her out of here,” said Stiles. “Like. Really bad. She needs to never be in here.”

“None of us should be here,” Blair reminded him. Stiles shook his head.

“Not what I mean. Just... trust me? Okay? Get the warden to let her go. Whatever you gotta do,” said Stiles. He was worked up and hyper about it, which seemed to raise a flag for Derek. Lydia looked like she had another opinion entirely but didn’t want to share. Blair wondered at the missing piece, that somehow the girl really was a banshee, but he kept quiet about it. The Ward where they liked to experiment and tear people apart was not the place to discuss any supernatural oddities or personal quirks a person might have.

“We’ll do an assessment, like we did for you,” Blair said. “It’s not like that was very successful the first - and second - time around, but maybe the third time’s the charm. The warden’s waiting on it, so, we can at least pretend I’m here for the job, right?”

Blair realized what he had said out loud when he saw the horrified paranoia on Stiles’ face. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to get centered. “Okay, that’s not what I meant.”

It wasn’t really enough to cover the gaff if anyone was listening, but there wasn’t much Blair could do about it then. So he locked the boys back in their cell, affixed the sign over the door about explosive contents, and escorted Lydia out of the Ward.

“Why- that sign says-“ Lydia began. Blair waved a hand to cut her off.

“The, uh, changeling? Used Stiles to blow up the MRI. I’m trying to limit his exposure to dangerous situations, since apparently the changeling has a committed interest in keeping him alive,” he said. “Don’t want to _freak out_ the fae.”

Lydia made a face at that but she didn’t ask any other questions as they were escorted by one of the guards to Blair’s office.

Blair’s office, which had, once again, been trashed by an idle thunderbird.

Books off the shelves, fresh cigarette-burns in the carpet by the window, but thankfully Thackeray hadn’t thought to combine his destructive powers by torching any of the books. Lydia sat in one of the chairs by the desk, looking somewhat shocked, as Blair tried to put things back in some semblance of order that afternoon. Neither of them were in any great hurry to start some kind of Sanctuary Entrance Exam process anyway.

Meanwhile, Thackeray sat on the arm of Lydia’s chair and preened. If Blair walked near them, the bird spread out his wide wings and raised his beak in warning. The thunderbird had claimed another human and made no secret about it, despite how much it confused Lydia. The best Blair could do about it was to toss Lydia a book.

“Find something interesting in that and start reading,” he had told her.

“What? Out loud?” she replied. Blair nodded, but he didn’t explain that it was just an excuse to buy time. He had a messy office and a Sanctuary full of residents from Beacon Hills and an irrationally screaming conscience that demanded he call the small town’s sheriff and apologize. None of it was his fault, but he wasn’t very good at helping prevent it, either. So Lydia read aloud a book about banshee lore while Blair cleaned his office and tried to figure out how to get the teenager off of the Sanctuary’s patient rolls.

The sun beyond the windows had gone down below the top edge of the building by the time Blair ran out of ways to stall. He had a clean office, Thackeray was contentedly purring beside Lydia, and Lydia looked pale and shaken by the things from the book. That wasn’t actually a good sign. It gave them both, more or less, a baseline for what counted as a “banshee” within the Sanctuary. Blair hoped the girl was a good liar.

Rather than jump right into anything for the Sanctuary, he figured they needed to get on the same page. Blair sat in the big guest chair on the same side of his desk as Lydia, which was kind of amusing because Thackeray hopped from one armrest to the other to sit between them.

“Had you seen the yard?” he asked, pointing Lydia’s attention to the floor to ceiling windows. “That’s where Stiles and Derek have been for the past month.”

He wasn’t showing the place off, but he thought she should have an idea of the place beyond the dark gray walls she had seen from the outside and the cold tech of Ward Six. Lydia took the hint and went to the window. Thackeray, apparently bereft of human attention, hopped back over to Blair’s chair and started chewing on the shoulder of his jacket.

“There’s still people out,” Lydia said from the window. “It’s after dark.”

“Full moon tomorrow, too,” Blair replied. Thackeray thumped his beak at Blair’s head like he was testing a melon and Blair carefully pushed the bird back into his own space. “There’s no order here. It’s just a box to keep the beasts penned up. They don’t keep track of anybody out in the yard, as far as I’ve seen. Once you’re in there, you’re on your own, basically. Derek and Stiles have the Hale pack. So if we can't keep you out of the yard, at least you’ll be safe with them.”

“I’ll stay with them,” Lydia said quickly. “But I haven’t done anything wrong. They can’t keep me here.”

Hitting the nail on the head didn’t mean things would go their way and Blair didn’t have any happy stories for her to back up her reasoning. He let out a sigh and shook his head. “Stiles and Derek didn’t do anything wrong. That apparently doesn’t mean much to people like the warden, or feds like McCall. Once they smell something weird, they mark people down and drag them in. That’s what happened to Jim.”

Lydia crossed her arms and turned around, leaning on the window to talk to him. “Then what’s the point? Why not just put me back with them and get it over with?”

“Because I can’t get Stiles and Derek out of the Ward and I don't know you’ll be safe walking down there in the yard without them. I’m _stalling_ ,” Blair admitted. “I mean, if I fill out their stupid form, if anything catches somebody’s attention, if they think they can prove what you can or can’t do through some crackpot science, if they think they can _replicate_ it or _contain_ it... you’ll be with the Hales for maybe a week before the bounty hunters in the yard send you back up to the Ward. And I’m having enough trouble keeping Derek and Stiles alive in there as it is. You’re... well, you’re _not_ them.”

Thackeray started making the chattering noise that was somewhere between a click and a burned out squawk, a sound Blair had come to associate with the bird being angry. Just one more anecdotal piece of evidence that the bird was more sentient than his file gave him credit for, but not any language that Blair could interpret.

Just then, Blair’s cell phone rang, startling him and Lydia while earning a glare from Thackeray.

“Sorry,” Blair apologized to the bird out of habit. He didn’t recognize the number that showed up on caller ID so he reluctantly answered it.

“Detective Sandburg?” asked a young, female voice. It wasn’t immediately familiar but he looked up at Lydia and recognized her friend Allison’s voice.

“Allison? Are you okay?” he asked. Lydia took interest but didn’t sweep in to take the phone.

“Yes and no. I just got my dad back,” Allison said. “But I had to leave Lydia with the Sanctuary people. Peter didn’t get with the plan and he ratted on her when I turned him in. I didn’t have a choice-“

“Lydia’s okay. She’s with me for now.”

“Good. She’s good at finding doors, Detective. Lydia always figures stuff out. She knows the plans, inside and out. She’ll be able to figure out how to get them out. I know she will.”

Blair knew better than to say anything out loud on the topic so he just nodded absently. “I’m trying to figure out how to keep her with Stiles.”

“Thank you... My dad and I aren’t going anywhere yet. We’re just trying to figure out what to do next. So we’ll be in touch. Let us know if you need help, this number.”

Blair didn’t have any news for the teen so he didn’t keep her on the line. When she said she had to go and hung up, he killed the connection and scrubbed at his face. It was going to be a very long day, because there was no way in hell he was going home without a police escort now; with the girls and Chris Argent both in the wind, the Sunrise Patriots would be gunning for _him_. The Sanctuary was suddenly the safest place in the state. For Blair, anyway.

And he still had to figure out how to help Lydia. And Derek and Stiles. And Jim. And everybody else. No pressure or anything.

Lydia pulled his attention back when she dropped back into the chair beside his. Thackeray didn’t bother to go visit her this time and worked at pulling another button off Blair’s jacket.

“So what about Stiles?” Lydia asked. Blair peeked over at her, momentarily confused as he tried to switch topics from wherever his train of thought had been to wherever hers was going. Lydia waited with forced patience.

“You said I’m not like Stiles and Derek, so I can’t go where they are now,” Lydia reminded him of their conversation before the phone call. “If it’s not safe, can we get them out of there?”

Blair huffed out an unamused laugh. She was playing catch-up and her good intentions would be no help. There wasn’t enough time in the day to loop her in on everything. That’s when Blair’s brain did the thing where it connected previously random concepts and linked them usefully together. He leaned forward to get out of Thackeray’s easy reach and look at Lydia directly.

“You were there when Stiles dealt with the Nogitsune,” he said. “You know what he was like. How the nogitsune affected him.”

Lydia tilted her head, not following. “Yes? Kind of?”

Blair stood up and moved to the other side of his desk to start searching through drawers. “Good. _Great_ , even...”

“Why? I didn’t think it was so great at the time.”

“No, now though... _now_ it is good,” Blair replied. “Because that’s our loophole. Tell me what you remember.”

 

*****

 

The day didn’t go so well for Derek and Stiles after Blair left. The man had hardly gotten out of Stiles’ hearing range before the warden pulled an override on the lock to the cell. Derek’s hands - still bloody from the changeling - were pulled together by the electronic manacles at his wrists. He knew better than to fight it because it tore up his wrists when he was in the Ward before. And the warden didn't send the guards in to hit him with a tranq dart, she brought only one guard in the room with her and left her other shadow outside the doors. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t something Derek knew how to dodge. The added confusion was that Stiles’ cuffs hadn’t been activated. He stood near the other end of the bed they had been about to dump over, the expression on his face just as dumbfounded as Derek felt.

They were both tensed for an attack, but there was no apparent threat. Just the warden and a guard and they stood in the middle of the room, apparently waiting for the attention they were due, as keepers of the keys. Derek watched the guard, wary of the cattle prods and dart guns he had on his vest. The warden could talk them to death but that wasn’t as pressing a concern when he couldn’t move his wrists.

“As a reminder to you both, there were conditions to the werewolf being allowed back into the Ward,” said the unhappy looking lady warden. There was more of a danger to her tone than any helpful reminder. Derek kept his mouth shut. Stiles looked from him to the warden, concern obvious. The warden nodded her head, like their silence was the right answer.

“I made it very clear there were rules. First among them was that you were not to be allowed in the same room as the changeling. It seemed like sound logic. Don’t put the things with matching faces in the same room together. It avoids any awkward _Parent Trap_ temptations someone might scheme up. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so we can’t have someone messing with our baseline,” she said.

“Blair stayed with us the whole time,” Stiles argued. There was no anger from the outburst and the warden crossed her arms and nodded again.

“ _Blair_ is a problem,” she said. “He has a brilliant brain and I can really use him. But he’s damned determined to make it hard to keep him if he’s going to listen to a werewolf instead of me. We have one job here, and that is to _contain_ the _supernatural_ , but from what I’ve seen so far, Blair would rather open the doors for them. Why is _that_?”

Shit.

Derek found somewhere else to be looking then, glared off the glass wall of their fishbowl prison cell. It made it easier to stay silent at the obvious provocation. Stiles had his own opinions, and, as a human prisoner rather than a werewolf, he apparently felt he could express them.

“That’s because he’s a decent human being and he’s not trying to screw us over? I mean, _maybe_? I don’t know the guy but that’s just my _guess_ ,” Stiles replied. The sarcasm was maybe a little thick but it was mild for Stiles. Maybe he was trying not to get them killed, but Derek wasn’t sure.

“Unfortunately for you, there are a lot of decent human beings out there in the world, and then there are people like you two, who are _dangers_ to those decent human beings,” the warden said. She looked pointedly from Stiles to Derek and back. “One hormonal moonshift away from wiping out an entire family or more make your _friends_ a threat. You are a threat. And under the definitions outlined in the laws of this nation, threats to the safety and well-being of the normal, peaceful, law abiding citizens can be _detained_. And _held_. Without trial. For the benefit of the peace. Which is what we do here. That is why you are here, no matter what you may want to believe.”

“Yeah, that gets hard to remember, watching you lose your shit over a changeling,” said Stiles. “You could enjoy _hurting us_ a little less, is what I’m saying there, by the way.”

“I don’t enjoy it, but it’s my job,” said the warden. “And, it is also Blair’s job. He just overlooks it when convenient. So I need to know why you two are his pet projects. What are you working with him that he has put so much time and personal risk into trusting you?”

“He hasn’t,” said Stiles. He tried to shrug it off but he was a bad liar.

“Bringing that thing up here was a risk. Specifically disobeying me and letting a werewolf in the same room as the changeling with his face was a risk. Hanging a sign on the door declaring this room off-limits to everyone but him is a risk,” the warden outlined the points while ticking them off on her fingers. Derek had to bite back a lot of anger as he tolerated being called a _thing_ , just in the hopes the woman would leave sooner. It didn’t seem to be going his way, though, as she carried on.

“And in the past week alone, how many times has he gone into the _yard_? I gave him permission to monitor your senses, but it’s gotten excessive. The yard is reserved for your kind. He is trespassing. He is putting his actual life at risk.”

Stiles knew better than to say anything, and Derek had nothing to say. She was asking them to turn rat and that wasn’t something Derek would allow. He caught Stiles’ attention and managed to contain the glare long enough to be sure he understood. No more talking to the warden.

She waited them out, which said nothing hopeful. Even if she had some sort of proof against Blair, did she really expect them to turn on someone who was helping them?

“I told you, Blair does important work for me. You are not the only people he’s helped while he’s been here. So far, he’s made great strides interpreting an artifact from an excavation in South Africa, and it may be useful toward one of our isolation patients here. I can’t afford to lose him because his favorites cloud his judgement,” said the warden. She sounded like she was still leading them, probably lying, but Derek couldn’t tell; she was used to dealing with werewolves and knew how to beat the lie detector test. “So I need you two to tell me what it is I’m missing. Why do _you_ get to bend the rules. Why can he walk by everyone else, but not you.”

Derek felt Stiles’ nervousness and the warden’s determination. It didn’t help his own confusion at all, because the one answer he did have for her question still sat uncomfortably with him. He didn’t know if he wanted to accept it for himself, and he certainly wouldn’t mention it to the warden. But she kept waiting.

“We don’t know,” Derek finally said. “You would have to ask Blair that.”

“Yes, and Blair would not answer me,” said the warden. Derek met her eyes then, annoyance showing in the hard lock of his jaw, despite his efforts at calm.

“Then why do you think _we_ can?” he asked.

“Because, while I can’t control Blair, I _can_ convince you,” she replied.

Stiles didn’t like the threat any more than Derek did. “ _We_ don’t know!”

The warden looked from Stiles to Derek, not surprised nor offended by the insistence. She stood out of reach and guarded, unconcerned enough by their lack of cooperation that she toyed with her phone as she waited. Derek looked toward Stiles instead, fixing his glare at the floor not far from Stiles’ shoes.

“You’re calm and quiet, Hale,” the warden observed finally. “Your uncle was much more talkative.”

The mention of Peter, especially in the past tense, caught his attention. Derek was being baited directly. He reminded himself to keep cool and ignore the woman. If he didn’t react, no one could get hurt, and the warden was only looking for an excuse to cause pain.

But then again, she was the warden of a black site prison that housed supernatural beings rather than humans, and she apparently didn’t have the moral compass requiring an excuse. As she waited, the picture of patience, toying with her phone, Stiles started tugging at his ear.

His nose twitched.

He scratched at his cheek, just below his eye.

He clasped his hands behind his neck like he could stretch out whatever he couldn’t get to that bothered his ears.

Derek noticed and lifted his gaze, looking around, listening. He didn’t see or hear anything that could have been messing with Stiles’ senses. Which narrowed down the suspect list to the woman playing on the phone.

“What are you doing?” he asked. The warden smiled at him.

“Clever boy,” she said, amused. “But I asked you something. So you first.”

“I don’t-“

“Do you want to know what I did?”

Derek didn’t have a chance to answer. Stiles clapped his hands over his ears and crumpled to the floor. He was in pain. And it was coming from inside his own head, so there was nothing Derek could do to help.

“Hey! You need him!”

“Yes, and I need to know what Blair is doing with his pet projects. So, as the _attachment_ to the project, that presents a problem for you, doesn’t it?” asked the woman callously discussing the weather as Stiles struggled to keep breathing through whatever pain was hitting him. “I mean, if this one dies from this, you’re back in the yard, _my_ problem is solved.”

_Dies?!_

“Stiles’ sensitive little ears or an ultrasonic emitter... Who wins, Derek?”

Derek couldn’t hear the frequency of whatever it was that had attacked Stiles’ hearing. His own sharp hearing wasn’t good enough, so whatever the source was, it probably wouldn't hurt him. But Stiles was barely not shouting as he curled over his knees, his body tense and ready to snap. He couldn’t twist up any more than he already had. If the frequency could do that much damage to his ears, what was it doing to the rest of Stiles’ senses? Could it attack his nervous system or organs? At the other end of the bed, Stiles finally cracked and let out a pained yell.

But they couldn’t tell her what she wanted to know. She probably already suspected something if she didn’t know exactly. They couldn’t tell her about the Sunrise Patriots breathing down Sandburg’s neck. To tell her that Blair was in it to help get them out of Ward Six and maybe, someday, out of the yard would be to screw over Blair and everyone in the Hale pack. Derek wasn’t ready to do that, not even for Stiles. But he could deflect some of it.

“Do a blood test!” Derek said finally. He was stuck. He had to give her _something_. It was better to risk just two rather than all of his mom’s pack.

Stiles suddenly relaxed, started breathing again, ragged but not as bad. He keeled over sideways to sprawl on the floor on his back.

“Blood test?” The warden asked. “Are you saying he’s on _drugs_?”

“No,” said Derek. “ _Paternity_. He’s helping us because he dated my mom. Twenty two years ago.”

The warden narrowed her eyes. It maybe wasn’t the best idea to tell the unstable psycho that her ex-boyfriend was helping his other ex-girlfriend defy her right under her nose. There were bound to be some hard feelings there.

“It’s probably not even true,” Derek told her. “So do the test. _Tell him_ I’m not his problem.”

“Right. He’ll believe that,” said the warden, darkly amused. She considered Derek a moment before nodding acceptance of what he said. She pointed Derek’s attention to the bed he hadn’t yet dismantled.

“You. _Sit_.”

It took a second for the demand to process. Shoving back on anger and fear, Derek reluctantly followed orders. The warden moved over to check on Stiles - something Derek wanted to do with more than just his own sharp hearing. He wanted to actually put his hands on Stiles’ chest and feel he was breathing, not just hear the breath and the erratic heartbeat from six feet away. Instead, the warden knelt down beside him, caught his chin in her hand and turned his head so she could check his ears. Stiles lay still, a dazed and panicked expression on his face. He hardly did more than swat at her hand.

She loomed over him, stayed in his sight, and quietly asked if Stiles could hear her. His face scrunched up, his expression worried.

“What?” he asked, nearly shouting. “I can’t freaking hear!”

“Fine. Can you see?” the warden said. She used the flashlight on her phone as a penlight to check Stiles’ eyes. He curled his arms over his face and tried to roll away.

“Oh my god! Yes! Go Away!”

The warden seemed amused when she stood up. She ordered Derek to stay where he was and then moved to the door. The guard on the outside opened the door and she stepped out, leaving one guard unattended. Derek’s attention dropped back down to Stiles. He wasn’t even tempted to go after the guard in the current anger he grappled with. He wanted to check on Stiles. But he didn’t want tackled to the ground and his liver poisoned with aconite again, either. So he stayed where he was, watched Stiles like a hawk, tried to remember the tricks Jim had taught them about how to manipulate the senses into peak performance. Stiles could make the tricks work but Derek just got frustrated.

“Stiles,” Derek said, quiet. From the floor, Stiles nodded with his arms over his head to protect the abused senses.

“Yeah, I got it. Dial it back,” he said. “Just... stay there. I’m gonna be sick.”

Derek decided not to argue with it and stayed where he had been told. When the warden returned, she had a little tube in her hand. She smiled and waved it at Derek as she approached.

“Good news. It’s not a blood test,” she told him. “So let’s see if we can crack the mystery of my favorite anthropologist. If you were Jim Ellison, I could understand. But you two being more of a draw than the thunderbird in his office or the Mesopotamian centaur in Isolation Ward makes zero sense.”

Derek tolerated the woman getting in his face, cooperated as she bossed him to collect the saliva for the vial. He tried not to snarl at her for standing too close as she tested him. She stood at his knee much longer than necessary and didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

“When Blair signed on, we had to collect a record of health. Get a DNA fingerprint of sorts, in case of accident. So now, I take _this_ to the lab, and they work their magic against what we already have, and maybe we’ll have an answer by the end of the day,” said the warden.

“Good, then go away,” said Stiles, from the floor, still tucked under his arm. His voice was a little loud, so his hearing wasn’t back to normal levels yet. He was a puppy chasing the woman away from a big dog, which was even less effective as he sat up and tried to squint at her. The warden tolerated it with only mild amusement. She looked to Derek instead.

“You can control the shift into the wolf, right? Your mother can. Is it genetic?” she asked.

“It’s not _genetic_ ,” said Stiles. Her existence was grating on them both but he was starting to sound territorial. “It has to be learned.”

“Oh, the unremarkable, wholly innocent, _human_ boy has all the werewolf answers?” asked the warden. Stiles glared at her.

“More than you,” he replied. The warden looked between them then, considering.

“Alright. Then if you make your pet shift from his human-form to his wolf-form - the one where he has four legs and a tail, like a _dog_ \- then you will have my word that once I leave this room, only Blair will have access to it for however long it takes to get the changeling stable.”

Stiles glared. Derek didn’t move. He didn’t want to shift on the warden’s demand. He wanted her to leave, but he didn’t like her terms, either. She waited a moment before crossing her arms, waving her cell phone a little for emphasis.

“That wasn’t _actually_ a request. I was just trying to be nice,” she told them. “I can’t trust Blair around you two and my changeling. So _you_ don’t get to have my changeling's face again until you’re back in the yard. Capish?”

Derek hesitated before giving up. He held out his hands, still trapped in the magnetic cuffs. Even if she wanted to be a bitch about it, he couldn’t follow those orders with the handcuffs on. So the warden had to give a little to get the cooperation she ordered, and she did. When he shifted, he stayed away from the warden, ducked under the wheels of the bed and out of the guard’s easy shot with a tranq gun.

With the black wolf cowed and hidden under the bed, the warden smiled as she left. The door locked and the lights went out, like usual, behind them. The guard even set the paper warning back over the door window.

Stiles hoarded Derek’s clothes away to hide them from the lying warden, and Derek caught the mattress and dragged it angrily from the bed. He tugged and jerked and felt the tough antiseptic-soaked material give and rip between his jaws, but it didn’t make him feel much better. Stiles struggled to dump the bed frame over but he got it propped against the door.

They were as locked in as they could get, but Derek felt exposed and at risk in Ward Six as a wolf; they had tried to force him to shift when they had killed him, and the warden had accomplished it by threatening Stiles. It wasn’t a good precedence to set. It was too easy to abuse, Stiles would be hurt because of it. It wasn’t a case of _if_ , but _when_.

Not quite back to fighting form, Stiles collapsed on the mattress behind the bed frame.

“That bitch,” he muttered into his arms, still hiding his face and ears like his head hurt, like he was afraid it would happen again. Derek kept his tail tucked without realizing it. He stretched out next to Stiles on the mattress and draped his fluffy neck carefully over Stiles’ shoulders. He could muffle the sounds if they happened again, but that was the most help he could offer against an assault on senses that could sneak under even a wolf’s hearing.

He had read Blair’s thesis on Jim’s sentinel senses, so Derek knew where the Sanctuary would have gotten their information on the ultrasonic controls, and he knew who they had tested it out on. He just didn’t know how to protect Stiles when the Sanctuary wasn’t playing with the same tricks he was used to from the hunters like the Argents. And he had a bad track record when it came to protecting his pack.

Derek almost missed the old threats and old broken treaties. He missed Beacon Hills. But just then, all Derek wanted to do was run back to the yard and away from the threats of the Ward.

****


	27. Chapter 27

It was a late night in the den. Talia and her brother seemed to have reached some kind of nostalgic peace, much to Victoria’s great annoyance. From what Jim could gather, Victoria was bitter about her husband having been blamed for something Peter did as a whacked out werewolf, while Peter was just salty about anyone not his sister.

He went out of his way to be nice to Claudia, however, but Jim didn’t like it; it wasn’t a normal being nice. It was like what predators did while encouraging a new plaything. Jim heard every lie the man tried to charm the pack with and he didn’t trust him. It explained a lot about Derek’s cagey behaviors if he had to grow up negotiating with Peter Hale’s loose relationship with the truth.

Considering there was a sizeable hole in a pipe under the den, it made Peter a dangerous addition.

When Jim asked to talk to Talia that night, they went down to the pipe to avoid drawing crowds. He left the torch tucked in the makeshift wall bracket just inside the cramped and narrow access path to the wider cavern created around the pipe. He wanted warning if anyone showed up to snoop, and he fully expected Talia's brother would track her down. She seemed to have the same thought, because Victoria followed them to the tunnel but not to the pipe, likely stood guard somewhere on the claustrophobic path in between.

"Have you heard from Blair?" Talia asked. Jim shook his head.

"I didn't reach out. Not until we know what we're doing and when we're doing it," he said. "And your brother showing up talking about tossing another kid in the mix definitely complicates things on that front."

"My brother _exists_ to complicate things." Talia sighed, crossed her arms, and leaned back on the exposed cement wall of the pipe. "But I see the logic. I want to get this crew out. And the longer we wait, with Peter in the mix, the more danger we're in."

"We can't take them out in stages now. Someone might miss the new guy, and he doesn't seem the sort to patiently wait his turn without running his mouth," replied Jim. The observation amused Talia.

"You've got him figured out, anyway," she said.

Jim shrugged, not surprised. "I was a cop too long, the bad seeds stand out, what can I say."

Talia accepted it for fact and didn't seem at all inclined to support her brother's character. "That seed goes when the rest of us go. And I think we need to do that soon. Which means we need to get to Blair and get the boys back in the yard."

"If he had any say in that, I think they would be back already. You heard what Peter said. The Patriots are giving him hell, so with what he knows about the Ward, leaving Derek and Stiles in there will be like fighting a battle on two fronts. I don't like our odds on this one," said Jim. He hesitated, gauging how Talia was processing the suggestion so far. "I think you and the pack should head out in the morning. I'll stay behind, close up the tunnels. And when Blair gets the boys back, we'll dig our way back out again."

The pack alpha was not a great fan of the idea and it was plain on her face, even in the heavy shadows of their dug out pit. “I’m not leaving my son here.”

“We have a way out now,” Jim reminded her, pointing to the gaping black hole in the otherwise brown and gray stretch of pipe. “You aren’t leaving him here. You’re getting the others out and clearing the path. He and Stiles are too known. If they go missing, if the warden notices Sandburg doesn’t have Stiles to check on as much, things could go sideways. Maybe this is a good thing.”

There was nothing remotely good about the Sanctuary and even less could be hopeful at all about Ward Six, but Talia caught his meaning. She seemed to be thinking it over, too.

“Okay. We get the others out. And you and I will stay behind for Derek,” she said. Stiles was added in as an afterthought but Jim talked over her.

“You know as well as I do, it’s a full moon tomorrow. Some of your pack isn’t too reliable on full moons. You can’t just leave them with Cloudy and Victoria out there. They haven’t seen a city in years,” he said. “You have to take them. Leave Derek and Stiles to me.”

“Peter can help-“

“Hell _no_. I’ve seen how he is with Claudia. And I very explicitly recall you saying you couldn’t trust Stiles to your brother, because of what he inherited from his _mom_. So it has to be _you_. They follow _you_.”

Talia kicked at the pipe, frustration clear. Jim crossed his arms. “You aren’t putting any of those people at risk over this. It’s dangerous enough what we’re trying to do! Me and Sandburg can handle Derek. Derek can handle Stiles and this new kid. We don’t need you here for that. We need you watching your people and making sure they keep their heads and get to safety. Because if any one of you fuck up out there, the rest of us in here get lockdown until they find the hole. We can’t risk _that_.”

For once the stubborn woman didn’t argue. She agreed with him. And she made plans to leave in the morning, after breakfast, which was the closest thing the Sanctuary had to roll call standing in line for food under the close watch of cameras, so no one would be missed for a few hours. There weren’t a lot of moving parts to their operation, other than to collect the pack and get out. And once they were out, they had to rely on blind luck, and Simon Banks.

With the decision made to leave, they were at the wire. Jim couldn’t put it off anymore. He couldn’t make a phone call from the tunnels under the den, so they traded the dark cave by the pipe for the dark night under the trees. Jim preferred it up there, he was less paranoid about the walls collapsing in on him when the walls were blocked from view by trees. Talia collected Victoria and Claudia and they all went up to supervise Jim’s phone call and keep away the snoops.

It had been over two years since Jim had talked to Simon. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the call, either. How was somebody supposed to explain dropping off the face of the earth to their boss and friend? It was one of those details Jim had wanted to toss off on Blair, but that wasn’t exactly an option now. For one thing, Jim didn’t have the phone battery for both calls. For another, the light was still on in Blair’s office, which said nothing good about Sandburg’s side of the escape plans, and Jim didn’t want to borrow that trouble. So he called Simon’s old number and prayed it hadn’t changed in two years.

“This is Banks.”

The greeting was familiar, if maybe a little stressed. Jim smiled at it. “Hey, Simon.”

There was a long silence and then a blustering confusion. “Ellison? What? Jim? Is this a joke- _Jim_?”

“No joke, sir. It’s Ellison. And I doubt Sandburg’s had a chance to tell you, but I’m in some trouble and could use some help. The potentially risky kind, Simon.”

“Well. I guess if there’s a risk, that must mean you’re really alive then. Dead guys don’t usually worry about risk. What in the name of- _where_ are you? Where have you _been_?”

“Long story. And I don’t have a lot of battery life left on this phone, so-“

And Simon listened as Jim gave him the extreme bullet points version of where he was and where he needed _Simon_ to be in the morning with a couple of vans. He just wasn’t going to mention the part where Jim wasn’t going to be on that transport out. Talia could explain that one.

“Two vans? Jim, what the hell are you into here?”

“I can’t explain right now, Simon.”

“Where’s Sandburg in all this?” Simon asked. He wasn’t going to let it go. Jim curbed a frustrated sigh and rubbed at the headache that threatened. It wasn’t like he could blame Simon for the caution.

“Blair’s dodging the Sunrise Patriots. I can’t go to him for help on this. Not yet,” he finally said. “And I didn’t want to have to get you involved, but there aren’t a lot of options right now. Once we’re on the other side of it, maybe things will make more sense. But I can’t even promise that right now, Simon.”

“The Patriots are in this? _Shit_ , Ellison...”

“It’s a mess, I know. Believe me, we didn’t ask for it,” Jim replied. Simon seemed to weigh everything out. Then he changed gears and got on board.

“Brown’s a coach with the county now, maybe we can get one or two of the team vans. I’ll get with him tonight. We’ll work something out. And I’ll keep the department out of it. For _now_ ,” he said.

“Thank you, Simon.” And Jim had very rarely ever meant anything more in his life. Simon had never let him down in twenty years, so he would come through on this. When they hung up, Jim had the annoying feeling that something was going right for once again.

He considered calling Blair that night, but he didn’t trust that the Patriots wouldn’t be watching him and listening in. So he went back to his bunk in the cell block building, like usual, and got in a few hours sleep instead.

 

****

 

The more Blair learned about the nogitsune, the more he didn't like the situation with the changeling. They were too similar. Stiles thought he could handle the nogitsune, too, but he had been wrong then. Lydia painted a very detailed picture. She had a sharp mind and a quick memory, as opposed to Stiles who was scatterbrained and chased every story down at least three different rabbit holes before landing on something that made sense to him as an end. The hazards of ADHD and diagnosing anything was the difficulty of interpreting a spastic perspective. Once Lydia calmed down, they cut through the static and Blair was able to get another side to the picture. It wasn't any more pleasant, but it seemed more complete.

Eventually, too, Blair was able to get Lydia to talk about the banshee accusation from Peter Hale that had trapped her there. It wasn't something Blair knew what to do with. And according to Lydia, there was nothing threatening about it. It was like a certain clairvoyance. She knew when someone was doomed, and she couldn't control it or change the fate. Her only warning was a feeling that eventually forced out as a scream.

Like Stiles, she had zero defenses against a place like the Sanctuary. What supernatural inclination she did have actually put her at risk there more than helped her. And Blair's recommendation that the girl be sent home would be ignored, like Stiles's situation all over again. The only thing that could possibly keep Lydia from the yard was what Blair already knew about her; she was smart, observant, quick, and, as it happened, Thackeray loved her.

So when the warden showed up late that night to check on the assessment status, Blair had a good idea of his recommendations in mind, and he had a back up plan for when the warden rejected them. He knew Miranda, knew how to tailor the idea to her goals, and he wasn't really concerned when she walked in. It was all but routine at that point, after putting a month of his life into Sanctuary business. And it wouldn't be the first time Blair stayed late on one of her assignments, either. He expected a quick visit.

It was fair to say, then, that he did not expect Miranda to walk in and sit down in the chair beside Lydia's across his desk. He also didn't expect to see Lydia look suddenly nauseous and lean on the arm of the chair with her hand over her mouth. Blair found his attention urgently and uncomfortably split between the two women and he forgot for a moment why Miranda was there. For a moment, Lydia looked panicked. Then she settled down, seemed to compose herself, and stared blankly at the front edge of Blair’s desk.

Before Blair could ask if there was a problem, Miranda passed a white envelope across the desk to him. It wasn’t sealed, and she waved at him to be sure she had his attention, encouraging him to open it.

“The labs found something today,” she said. “I thought you should see it.”

She sounded neutral, like whatever the labs found was as interesting as watching paint dry. But it didn’t quite match up with the lines on her face. Her expression was just above bitter. _Barely_. Cautious, Blair took the envelope and looked it over. When he looked back at Lydia, the teen was still pretending she wasn’t in the room, hiding behind T-bird, and staying away from Miranda.

Blair was no longer confident he could talk Miranda into seeing things his way when it came to the new banshee. His new plan was to hope Miranda forgot the girl was in the room. That meant venturing carefully toward the topic the warden had shown up to discuss. So he opened the envelope and pulled out the folded printout tucked inside.

What he saw was a chart of numbers, percentiles and codes mostly, with his name at the top. The concerning appearance of the word ‘Child’ as the header of one column of information made him stop trying to decipher the contents. Blair tossed the paper to the desk and looked across at Miranda.

“What is this,” he said, waving dismissively toward the paper. In the back of his mind, he knew exactly what it was, and he was rejecting it at face value, for so many reasons. Miranda leaned to the edge of the chair toward him.

“We had your DNA on file. We had his DNA on file. I even had them double check and run against the blood samples,” she said. “So. It is now confirmed. Mystery solved. And you’ll excuse me for not bringing a cigar. It seems a bit late for celebrations. We all know how the bundle of joy turned out.”

Blair scrubbed at his face with both hands, trying to hold off something that felt a little like panic. He had too many people counting on him, he couldn’t let this get in the way.

“Okay... I guess,” he said, speaking carefully as his brain screamed around from one idea to the next in how to control the fallout. “Did you check it against the changeling then, too?”

The warden tilted her head, surprised by the question, but at least a little amused.

“No. The two projects never blended, and you weren’t here thirty years ago when the changeling was found,” she said. There was an edge to her smile. “But I noticed you didn’t ask who it was. So I was right? This is why you’ve been checking in on them so much?”

The question lodged in Blair’s brain. It was a convenient excuse at the moment, rather than admit to the actions of the Sunrise Patriots that would lead to big problems at every level. He had so far kept the Patriots out, but that wasn’t the likely conclusion Miranda would come to if Blair actually confessed why he spent so much time lately helping Stiles and Derek. Surprisingly, fathering a werewolf, locked up in werewolf jail, seemed the safest of his two options. He could run with that.

“Yes,” was all he said. He waved at the paper on the desk. “I didn’t think to check. I didn’t know it was that easy.”

“It was _that_ easy. The question remains, what are you going to do with the information now?” Miranda asked. “I want you here, working these cases. All of them. Not that one. Because I assure you, there is nothing in werewolves that we don’t already have well in hand. Compared to some of the others in this facility, the Hales are a textbook case. If you want a pet, get a dog. Leave the Hales to the yard. That’s what the yard is there for. We have access to relics and _extinct species_ , Blair. Things much more worth your time.”

There was a sickening anger at listening to the woman’s words, but Blair had to snuff it out. He was dealing with zealots no different than the Sunrise Patriots and he _had_ to be welcomed in to stay. He glanced up at Lydia and saw that the words had upset her. Miranda didn’t, thanks to Thackeray perched on the arm of Lydia’s chair. He had his back to the warden and preened at Lydia’s hair, keeping her all but hidden from the warden’s view.

“You’re right, there’s plenty to look into. Like these two,” said Blair. It was a distraction to get away from the warden’s agenda and get the woman out of his office faster. He waved toward Thackeray to redirect Miranda’s attention. “Lydia has a fascinating clairvoyance. But she can’t survive the yard. She can’t defend herself, no attack-mode. Stiles at least has the Hales. But Lydia doesn’t.”

“Banshee aren’t clairvoyant,” said Miranda. “They’re screaming ghosts.”

“I am no such thing,” said Lydia, her anger obvious in her tone. T-bird fluffed up and spread his tattered wings to be bigger than the girl’s anger, but he didn’t sulk off.

“Banshee are fae, Miranda,” said Blair, treading carefully. “Like your changeling. They aren’t _ghosts_.”

As predicted, the Sanctuary Warden tuned in to the clarification like a wolf to a red steak. “Is she a changeling?”

“Nope, just a teenager who can kind of see the future, from what I can tell so far,” said Blair. He toyed with a pen on his desk and leaned forward to keep Miranda’s attention. “She could get a read on the nogitsune when it had Stiles, though. She helped get it out. And I pulled up her grades. She’s smart. She knows science and math better than she knows the supernatural. So I want her working with me. She can help me translate my work for people like Falwell and Ricketts.”

The warden considered it, her arms crossed and body language closed off. It wasn’t an effective sell. Blair didn’t give up.

“How are they today, anyway? Somebody said Ricketts almost lost his arm,” he said.

“He did,” said the warden. “He’s not going to be able to work again. Falwell’s recovering better, but he won’t be back for another two weeks at least.”

“See, that’s a problem,” Blair said. He tossed the pen and leaned back in his chair. “If I can’t get through to these people in my notes then what happens next time? The changeling blew up that lab because they thought they could mess with something I specifically said not to. They don’t want to give me credit. Maybe if we have a clairvoyant sign-off on my notes, someone who knows the supernatural and who can speak science, the science guys will listen.”

The warden looked at Blair like he was the crazy one. “She’s a teenager. They won’t-”

“Yeah, _now_ she is, but in a few years, if she starts out here and gets the feel for the place? She could be a genius in both worlds,” returned Blair. “Unless you’re sending her home. But if she’s here anyway, she should work. Because Falwell and the others have no idea what they’re doing or why, and she can be trained in both. Especially if you’re keeping the changeling.”

“ _If_ I’m keeping it? Are you mad,” replied Miranda, not impressed by his taunt. Blair waved at Lydia, the teen scowling back at him from the opposite side of her chair and as far from Miranda as she could get. Thackeray still blocked the warden’s view, so Blair wasn’t worried about the open display of attitude. She had every right to be pissed off, and he was pissed off, but he had a whole month’s practice at the Sanctuary, and a decade of undercover work to rely on.

“You’ve got someone right there who can read that thing’s mind and translate. And Lydia isn’t screwing around with the werewolves, so maybe she’ll understand what you’re trying to do here. Maybe Stiles is a lost cause but I don’t think Lydia is,” he said. Hidden behind the bird, Lydia snapped off a glare for the comment about Stiles, but Blair tried to ignore it. If she hadn’t yet noticed that Blair was making everything up as he went along, she wasn’t nearly as smart as he’d come to expect when he worked with her in Beacon Hills.

“We can try it,” the warden said eventually. She stood up from her chair, smoothed her skirt. She seemed settled about Blair at least, satisfied with her trick with the paternity tests. She looked over the bird at Lydia, who by then had found a spot on the floor to glare at instead. Thackeray ruffled his feathers and snapped his beak but he didn’t object when Miranda stroked the feathery crown at his head. “I’ll make sure Lydia has a place secured in Isolation before I leave tonight. Next week we can discuss clearance to participate in your projects.”

“Sounds good. Next week it is,” said Blair. He didn’t say anything else until the warden left. Lydia shook her head at him, the glare back, the anger there.

“I can’t believe you,” she finally said, quiet. Blair nodded. And then, because he knew she _wouldn’t_ believe him, he took the paper the warden had tossed at him earlier and passed it over to Lydia. He took his wallet out of his back pocket, leaned forward over the desk and held it open to show her the Cascade PD badge.

“I get that. And all I can say is these two things are why I’m still here. I was honest with you before, and my objective hasn’t changed since Beacon Hills. I’m just... working with what I’ve got,” he said. Lydia snooped at the paper, her anger fading out of innate curiosity as she weighed out the proofs he offered. She waved the paternity results, reluctantly confused.

“Who’s this for?” she asked. Blair hesitated on it.

“Derek. I, uh... well, I didn’t know. Obviously.” He started to dismiss it as a long story, but he realized it really wasn’t. It sucked, but it was the same one his mom had pulled on whoever his father was, so it wasn’t that complicated, really. And Lydia probably didn’t actually care.

“You don’t look like him,” the teenager concluded. Blair huffed at the stubborn observation.

“Uh. Yeah, he didn’t stick around long in my end of the genepool, think that’s fair to say. Lycanthropes probably have the more dominant genetics, really.”

But it seemed to settle Lydia’s opinions again. She was frowning, but no longer glaring. She sat a little straighter in the chair and let Thackeray preen at her barely tamed hair again.

“Fine,” she said, intentionally prim and cold. “But next week doesn’t work. I only had this week off from school.”

Blair grinned at the attitude. “Yeah. We’ll work with that.”

*****


End file.
